


SPN XXX: Deleted Dirty Dean Scenes

by DeansDirtyPiehole



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Sex, BDSM, Biting, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Bondage, Breast Fucking, Breathplay, Choking, Cock Worship, Come Swallowing, Comeplay, Cunnilingus, Daddy Dom Dean Winchester, Daddy Kink, Dean Winchester Gives Oral Sex, Dean Winchester Has a Large Cock, Dean Winchester Talks Dirty, Dean Winchester is a God, Dean Winchester's Big Beautiful Cock, Deepthroating, Demon Sex, Dirty Talk, Dom Dean Winchester, Dom/sub, Edgeplay, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Facials, Finger Sucking, Flirty Dean Winchester, Fucking, Gun Kink, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Kinky Dean Winchester, Kissing, Making Love, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Masturbation, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pain, Porn, Praise Kink, Priest Dean Winchester, Priest Kink, Public Humiliation, Public Sex, Punishment, Quickies, Reader-Insert, Rimming, Road Head, Roleplay, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, S&M, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Sex in/on the Impala (Supernatural), Sexual Content, Shameless Smut, Shifter Dean, Shower Sex, Slapping, Slut Shaming, Smut, Spanking, Spitroasting, Teabagging, Teasing, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vampire Sex, Verbal Humiliation, Violence, Voyeurism, Watersports, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2019-10-14 09:26:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 174,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17505986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeansDirtyPiehole/pseuds/DeansDirtyPiehole
Summary: Dean Winchester is a living, breathing, walking, talking, fucking sex god. Yet throughout all of SPN, we never get to see his cock. (Thanks, CW. Thanks a lot.)... But what if SPN was meant to be a steamy show on HBO? Or, better yet, a XXX porno? What if each episode featured hardcore sex that had to be cut out to keep the series PG-13? These would be the deleted dirty scenes.And you get to play the role of every lucky character who gets with Dean.





	1. (S01E01) I Love the Smurfs

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo I know I just started posting a few other fics, and I should be trying to focus, but then I suddenly got inspired to write this and just couldn't resist. SO HERE IT IS. (I regret everything. I regret nothing.)
> 
> The idea of SPN XXX is to imagine hot sex scenes that might've been deleted from certain episodes. All scenes will feature Dean; some will feature Sam and Cas (with possible hints of Wincest/Destiel) and other characters as well. But this fic will focus on Dean fucking women. 
> 
> In each scene, you star as the girl who gets dirty with Dean. These girls are all actual characters from the show—some minor, some more important—but instead of the actress who plays each character, imagine that the role is yours. And buckle up to be Dean's lover and/or dirty little whore ;)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 1 ("Pilot")*
> 
> *In which you are Jessica Moore*
> 
> "I wouldn't dream of it. Seriously," Dean says.
> 
> But of course he does. Your boyfriend's big brother is standing there shamelessly dreaming about all the dirty things he wants to do to you...
> 
> And fuck it—you are, too.

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 1 ("Pilot")***

***In which you are Jessica Moore***

 

 

You love your big, tall Winchester. You really do.

You love the way he loves you, love the way his long shaggy hair feels against your skin, love the nerdy way he sometimes tries to study while the two of you are cuddling, love the dirty kinky things he likes to do to you...

But then you lay eyes on his brother. And you know you're fucking screwed.

Because now, from just one look at him, you feel a desperate, burning need to do every damn dirty thing with him, too.

So this is Dean.  _The_ Dean Winchester. _What the hell is it about him_ , you wonder—the way his green gaze fucking sparkles as he slowly peels your clothes off with his eyes? The way his full lips frame his sinful mouth so sweetly, parted just enough for you to glimpse the slick pink tongue that's glistening inside? The way the voice that slides out of that luscious mouth right now, so liquid smooth and rich like velvet drenched in whiskey, is about to make you come just from the sound? The way his light brown hair is tousled up as if he's just come from a hard fuck, soft spikes poking out in every possible direction? Or maybe it's how all of that combines to make him living, breathing, literal perfection.

You can't quite put your finger on it. But you shouldn't have to. You just need his fingers— _so much more than just his fingers, if you're honest_ —deep inside you and all over you.

It's a struggle not to jump his bones this very instant as he wags one of those fingers at the cleavage of your shirt and tells you how he loves the Smurfs. You both know he's referring to your tits and not the silly blue cartoon characters. And then— _holy shit_ —Dean fucking starts coming toward you, his intoxicating scent hitting your senses as he moves in closer...

Meanwhile, you can feel your boyfriend glaring at you from across the room. He knows exactly what is happening. What you're feeling. What you want, what you _need_ , now more than anything. And his drop-dead gorgeous brother knows it, too.

_God, you are so fucking screwed._

 

***************

 

"At least tell me where you're going," you demand of Sam later that evening.

He's packing a duffel because he's apparently leaving. Off to deal with some so-called 'family drama' along with Dean, after the two of them had a long private talk, leaving you in the dark. On the surface, you're concerned and upset because your beloved boyfriend seems to be hiding things from you, and because a trip like this might make him miss his crucial law school interview.

But that's not all that's bothering you. More than that, it's the fact that not only Sam will be gone this whole weekend—the fact that Dean will be gone, too. Leaving you behind, alone at home with nothing but your wild fantasies of all the dirty shit you wish he'd do.

It's super twisted, and you hate yourself for being such a filthy little slut, but having laid eyes on Dean Winchester in all his glory, filthy slutty is the only way to be.

Sam pauses for a second before turning to respond to you. "Okay. Maybe I'll tell you," he agrees, "...if you'll admit it."

You furrow your brows at him. "Admit what?"

"Admit what you want."

Beneath the hazel blaze of his gaze, you try not to squirm. "Um..."

"Come on, Jess—do you honestly think this is the first time my brother has charmed the ass off of a girlfriend of mine? I know that look when I see it. It's the same thirsty look I've seen on practically every chick who meets Dean."

Your eyes widen, then narrow defensively. " _What?_ Sam—"

"Don't get all defensive about it," he commands. "You don't have to. It's obvious. And besides..."

Then, all of a sudden, Sam gets _that_ look in his eyes. The look that you know can mean only one thing. It's been a while since the last time he asked you to do this kind of thing, after which you'd told him firmly that it was never happening again—you didn't get off on this kink the way he did— _but now..._ now, at the thought, you can already feel arousal gushing in your tight pink striped pajama shorts, dampening the crotch.

And just in case you doubted what he meant, Sam says it then. "...I want to watch."

 

***************

 

Sam has assured you that Dean is a dirty dog who's always down to fuck, so the setup for this really shouldn't take much.

That turns out to be even truer than you'd thought. One minute, you're sashaying toward his complete sex-machine of a car, where he has it parked waiting outside the apartment. Leaning in through the window to tell him that Sam had to run on a last-minute errand. Trying not to faint from how damn good he smells as you smile and invite him in for a drink.

Then the next minute, you're flirting all the way up the stairs to the apartment, then lying that Sam keeps the best liquor stashed in the bedroom, and the next second, you're there, ripping his jacket off, running your fingers through his fuck-me hair, all set to suck that flawless face and then drop to your knees in front of him. To show Dean what you _really_ want to drink.

"Wait," he whispers just before your lips meet his. "Sam...?"

"He's fine with this," you tell him, though you're not about to tell him that his kid brother is peeping from the closet. _No doubt Sam is straining not to breathe too loud now as he wraps his fist around his long, hard dick._ "Promise."

And that's all Dean needs. _It's all you need, goddamnit._ He grabs your face in his big hands and smashes your lips against his, sucking the life out of your lungs from just one kiss, and _fuck, it shouldn't be legal for anyone to be so good at this_. It doesn't even matter that your whole body has basically gone limp because he is so wholly in control of everything, from the thud of your head against the pillows as he growls and throws you down onto the bed, to the moans that escape from your throat as his mouth leaves its mark on your neck, to the swell of your chest as he starts massaging your sensitive flesh, palms and fingers moving like magic over the soft mounds and stiff peaks of your breasts, somehow striking a perfect balance between a rough manhandling session and a gentle, indulgent caress.

And then he fucking speaks, and the mind-blowing sound of that whiskey-velvet voice, lower and deeper in the heat of sex, instantly turns you into even more of a trembling mess. "This what you want, Jess?"

There's the slightest dark edge to his tone that makes it clear you have to answer him, no matter how blissed out you're feeling. "F—fuck, _yes_."

"Good girl," he growls, yanking his shirt off in one swift motion before leaning into you again, hot breath brushing against your neck, calloused hands grabbing and kneading all over the globes of your breasts.

With Dean finally half-naked on top of you, you wish you'd had more time and presence of mind to take in the sight of his strong, sculpted shoulders, his chiseled bare chest. But you're too lost in what he's doing to you, too mindblown, too numb. Especially now as his thumbs trace over the edge of the thin fabric framing your cleavage, scandalously low-cut and showing too much, just like your shorts which you know are scandalously tiny and tight, but it's fine because these are pajamas so Sam is supposed to be the only guy who sees you in them. _Till tonight._

"Mmm. You know I fucking love the Smurfs," Dean purrs, lips lifting off your skin and curling up into a smirk. "Is that why you stayed in this slutty little shirt? Came outside to get me with your tits bouncing around for all the world to see?"

_Oh holy fuck._ It's like Dean _knows_ you have a thing for dirty talk. None of your hookups or boyfriends to date—Sam included—have really been able to scratch that itch. Most of them have been down to _do_ dirty things, and sometimes they're okay at it, but it never quite felt right when they would try to _say_ dirty shit. To call you _slut_ or _whore_ or _bitch_.

And now you know why. It's because each of those words was made for Dean Winchester's lips. These fucking delicious lips, so plump and warm and thick as they attack your skin with teasing bites and torrid licks, moving in sync with his rough hands on your chest and the rhythm of his hips grinding into yours, making sure that you feel every inch of the big, rock hard bulge of his denim-clad dick. "You that desperate to be my dirty slut? Want me to fuck these tits?"

Your mouth opens as if to reply, but you've pretty much died, so your voice can't quite manage it.

"Answer me, bitch."

His command cuts in straight to your core, wielding complete power over your paralyzed vocal cords, summoning words even though you'd been utterly speechless the moment before. "Yes, Dean. Please."

"Yeah, that's it. You gonna beg for my big dick... right... here?" he teases, sliding his forefinger down the space between your tits, smoothly, slowly. "Gonna be a good little whore for me?"

" _God_ , yes. Please. I _need_ your cock, Dean, need it so fucking bad... _please_..."

"Hmm," he hums as you continue pleading for his cock. Then he's pawing at your shirt until the flimsy fabric starts pulling apart, latching his mouth around one of your nipples as the ripped cloth slips off of your breasts, letting them suddenly burst free. "Since baby girl begged so nicely... but first I'm gonna get these titties nice and wet for me."

Dean's talented lips and teeth and tongue work fucking magic on your tits, one then the other, even both at once, licking and sucking every inch until he's had enough, until you're seeing stars, until his cock is even more massive and raging hard, and then— _oh, God_. Then he's shifting to slide out of his jeans, and settling into position, knees braced beneath your shoulders, straddling your chest, watching you gaping and gawking up at him as he gives you the most delicious view you've ever fucking seen.

Seriously. The throbbing piece of meat that's hovering before you now is so big and so beautiful that, breathless though you are, you _have_ to say something. "Holy... ugh, your cock is fucking _perfect_ , Dean."

His luscious lips curve up into a smirk. "Yeah, I get that a lot. You think you're ready for this big cock?" he taunts as he takes the thick shaft in one of his fists and starts stroking it, sliding his hand from base to tip, gathering juicy drops of precome on his thumb to get his length slicked up. "Think you can take it good and hard, you filthy little slut?"

You're not sure if the sounds that explode out of your mouth right now are even words. Whether they are or not, Dean knows exactly what you mean, exactly what you want. For the next hour, or more—time has become a blur—after fucking your tits just as he'd promised, he pounds you hard in every hole, using his dominant fingers to get each one wet and ready for him first, ready to take his big huge cock in deep and slake your every thirst: your gaping throat, your dripping cunt. Even your ass, although you usually don't like that; you've never even let Sam do it. But now, with his fucking sex god of a brother, here you are spread out upon the bed you share with Sam and begging, screaming for Dean's dick to drive inside the hole that's always been off-limits, while your kinky bastard of a boyfriend jerks off watching every minute. He's getting off on this. You know he is.

And so are you. Of course. Your voice is hoarse from all the screams as you've lost count now of how many times you've come. Your time with Dean has honestly felt like it's all been one insane extended orgasm. It doesn't even make sense how this kind of thing can happen. But you don't need it to make sense; you just need him to do it _again_. And _again_. To keep on fucking you in every hole with all the fire of hell and taking you to heaven.

Dean hasn't come once yet, though, you realize now as he pulls his dick out of your pussy and pins your head onto the pillow, one of his hands twined in your hair and pushing down as the other hand pumps his enormous cock, aiming it straight at your mouth, inches away from your wet, panting lips. You don't need him to tell you to flick out your tongue; you do it on instinct, eager to fucking worship the head of his dick with a deep, sloppy kiss.

"You want my come now, bitch?" he asks, not bothering to let you answer when it's so achingly obvious. "Tell me where you fucking want it."

"God, Dean, all over me. Please," you beg, needing nothing more than to taste it, but also needing to feel it on your skin, coating and covering you up. "My mouth, my face, my tits, just— _fuuuuck_..."

_Fuck_  because then he's giving you exactly what you need, the way that only Dean Winchester could, and it shouldn't be legal for anything to feel so good. It's hot and thick and there's so fucking much of it. _Holy fucking shit._ He feeds you first, quenching your deepest thirst, then shoots the next few spurts onto your forehead, then your chest, grunting and groaning and soaking you in his creamy come until there's nothing left. You savor what he fed you down your throat, relishing the sweet, rich flavor as you swallow, and bask in the sensation of the rest of it upon your skin, moaning in bliss as every last cell in your body just _melts_.

Once the stars start to clear from your field of vision as you come down from the high of how damn good that felt, the feeling that surges through you next is a desperate urge to thank him for it, to tell him and show him all over again that he is fucking perfect...

But he's already risen from the bed. Stepping into his jeans, shrugging into his shirt. "Like I said—you're completely out of my brother's league, Jess. That was fucking awesome. Sorry about the Smurfs."

You blink and turn your head to see the torn pieces of your favorite pajama shirt flung amidst the rumpled blankets. You couldn't care less. Dean fucking your tits had been so worth it. You tell him so. It comes out hazy because your voice and brain are still a ragged mess. "Don't, uh—don't worry about it. You were so... _so_ fucking worth it. You're perfect."

He smirks and winks as he throws on his jacket, leaning in to bless your lips with one last kiss. "I know."

And then he's leaving, and you honestly don't know how you will ever enjoy sex, ever enjoy _anything_ , ever again. It was so fucking worth it, though.

"Heya, Sammy," Dean casually calls out to his closeted brother, just before he saunters out the door. "Time to go."

_... Oh._

"Hope you enjoyed the show."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! :)
> 
> I'd love to hear if you enjoyed this, and/or if you're interested in the idea of this series! And please do subscribe if you'd like!
> 
> Kudos and comments are awesome and always much appreciated <3


	2. (S01E02) I Don't Do Shorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 2 ("Wendigo")*
> 
> *In which you are Haley Collins*
> 
> Deep in these dark woods, Dean has drawn some cryptic symbols in the dirt around the campsite. You're supposed to stay inside the magic circle, to stay safe throughout the night. Just stay inside.
> 
> That's what you told yourself to do. But then this dirty sexy bastard had to step outside the lines and start seducing you.
> 
> Just stay inside; just stay inside... Damn it, you tried.

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 2 ("Wendigo")***

***In which you are Haley Collins***

 

****

 

"You're rangers?" Roy asks the two guys.

Mr. Glorious Green Eyes replies. "That's right."

You can hardly blame Roy for his skepticism. You've hired him as your hiking guide, so you're confident that he knows what he's doing. Hell, you're paying him for it. Whereas these pretty boy idiots? You knew from the minute they came by your house yesterday that they're not what they say, and that they're up to some shady fucking business.

Not that you really care, when both of them—and one of them especially—is so damn gorgeous.

Still, this whole 'ranger' charade is just ridiculous, and you're going to give Dean shit for it. You shoot him a quizzical look. Supposedly scanning his clothes, though truly too busy imagining what's underneath. "And you're hiking out in biker boots and jeans?"

Dean glances down at his outfit. Checking his fine self out while he's at it, no doubt. He looks back up at you and answers with a cheeky smirk. "Oh, sweetheart, I don't do shorts."

You're suddenly aware of just how tight and short yours are, as those sparkling emerald eyes swiftly skim over your bare legs and up your thighs. Then Dean is walking straight towards you. And before brushing past, he pauses just to whisper something in your ear that turns you on so much it hurts.

"But I'd sure love to get in yours."

 

***************

 

After a whole damn day of hiking through the forest beside Dean and trying—obviously failing—not to love the way he flirts with you, the daylight finally fades to night.

Dean draws what he calls 'Anasazi symbols' in the dirt around your makeshift campsite. "It's for protection. The wendigo can't cross over them."

Roy snorts at this whole magic circle thing, ever the skeptic.

Not long afterward, shit happens, Roy sets foot outside the circle, and next thing you know the wendigo has snapped his neck.

_Maybe this stupid circle actually is magic._  Either way, for the rest of the night, you are  _so_ staying inside.

Or at least you're gonna try.

It's going all right, till you catch the sound of something— _someone?_ —shifting outside, in the middle of the night. You're huddled up in one of the tents with your brother Ben, who somehow is so deep asleep that he's snoring, whereas in your case, the freakiness of everything you've heard and witnessed so far on this day has kept you wide awake.

_That, and something else._ It's not the fact that you're on fire with the need for Dean to fuck your face. Because you're not. Of course you're not thinking about him all night long, not even just a little, not at all. Not his flawless features, not his fine ass. Definitely not his cock.

You're not desperately hoping that the sound you heard outside is him, stepping out of the other tent that he and Sam are sharing.

And you're not goddamned-giddy-girly  _happy_  when you poke your head out from your tent and see that it is him indeed. A statuesque silhouette of broad shoulders and bowlegs standing out amidst the shadows of the woods in all his glory.

Dean is heading off in the opposite direction, toward some trees, so you're sure that he won't catch you staring. But then he reaches the edge of the magic circle that he's drawn into the dirt. And then his pretty head fucking turns to look back at you over his shoulder. Even from this distance, even in the dark, you can feel his gaze upon you deep and hard. He is seriously burning you to ashes with that smolder.

_Ugh, that dirty sexy bastard._ The glimmer in his bright evergreen eyes, and the smug curve of his smile, make it obvious that he knows you've been staring for a while.

For a moment, neither of you moves a muscle. He moves first. The mischievous motherfucker takes a deliberate step to set one of his feet, and then the other, just outside the magic circle.

_Shit. This night is not going to end well_ , you think. _Or maybe it's going to end a little... too well._

You should really just go to sleep. But damn it, you're already in too deep. You suck in a long breath as you exit your tent, taking a few cautious steps toward him where he stands, though not about to join him on the other side of safety.

Softly clearing your throat, you watch Dean as he slowly swivels to face you. Wait for him to say something. He doesn't.

So you do, then, stupid and stuttering because the sight of him like this has rendered you a silly piece of shit, got you feeling like an infatuated schoolgirl. "You're, uh—you're outside the... magic circle."

His perfectly shaped eyebrows lift into flirtatious arches that are somehow even _more_ perfect. "Think I didn't notice?" he teases. "Don't you worry about me, princess. I'll be just fine. Got my own magic."

Your eyes drop to the hand that is now moving toward his pants. An exhale catches in your throat as words you can't control slip past your trembling lips, at that. "H-holy shit..."

Dean slides his tongue beneath his pearly teeth as he starts to unbuckle his belt and unzip his jeans. "Yeah, you know it," he breathes, matching his words to the maddening, ravishing rhythm of his movements, watching desire build inside you, bursting at the seams. "This big... magic... dick."

That magic, majestic dick of his springs free just as he says it. And fuck, it's _beyond_ perfect. It is just...

A sudden crackle in the forest right then snaps you to your senses. Which is a good thing, because you otherwise would have already flung yourself out of this safe little circle to drop to your knees and worship his dangerously big dick. Thanks to the ominous sound from the surrounding woods just now, that doesn't happen. _And that's a damn good thing._ What Dean is doing now is hot as hell, but it is also literally putting him at risk of dying.

Claiming back some of your composure and sass, or at least trying, you cross your arms and scowl at him. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"What the fuck do you think?" he asks in answer to your absolutely stupid question. "You know how good you look in those tight little shorts you're wearing. Watching your pretty ass hiking around in those all day, you know how fucking hard my dick has been."

_Oh God, yes_. You had hoped that Dean wasn't just flirting with you all day for no reason. You had dreamed, as he got your panties drenching wet each time you looked at him, that at the same time he was really getting hard for you beneath those rugged jeans. You hadn't known if it was true. But now you do. Hearing him talk dirty like this, devilishly describing the effect that you have on his dick, is seriously mind-blowing.

And he's got even more delicious dirty talk still coming. "So now I'm gonna stand here, watch you gawking at my massive cock. Gonna wrap my fist around it. And I'm gonna start stroking."

Now that is exactly what he's doing, and it's magical and fucking mesmerizing. _So much for composure._ You're struggling not to squirm like a whore, suddenly even more soaking wet in your shorts. Completely done for. " _God_ , Dean..."

"Mmm, that's it. Moan for me, sweetheart. You wanna watch? Or wanna... touch?" he wickedly taunts, reading the response in your wide eyes as they reveal all of your deepest needs and wants. "Or taste? Want me to fuck your face? That's right, bitch, bet you've never wanted anything so much."

_Holy fuck_. You both know that it would be pointless to deny or to fight just how much you want that... but then the forest fucking crackles again, and your composure tries to make another desperate comeback. You cannot stand the thought of this gorgeous god putting his precious life at risk, just for kicks, only to get snatched or slaughtered by a hideous wendigo or whatever. Especially not right now, while he's jerking the most perfect cock you've ever fucking seen. Ever. "Damn it, can't—can't you just do that in here, Dean?"

His sturdy shoulders lift up in a subtle shrug. "Sure I could," he grants, his thick shaft growing ever larger, harder now within the firm grasp of his hand. "But I like living on the edge. Feels so... damn... _good_."

_Ugh._ There is something mind-numbingly hot about the fact that he is here pumping his cock outside the safety of this circle, as if challenging the dangers of these woods. It's a thrill so intense that it could—literally—kill. And the kinky little bitch in you is digging it. But you are so not going to admit it. "You are such a fucking _idiot_."

"Ouch, baby girl. Words like that hurt." Dean feigns a flinch of pain, which quickly shifts into a naughty smirk. "But I like feeling the burn. Want me to return the favor?"

_Motherfucker._ You're already sure that, whatever he whips out to tempt you next, you won't be able to resist.

"Would you like that? Want me to call you a prude little princess, too damn scared to suck this dick you want so bad?"

_Fucking shit._ You roll your eyes to hide how much you like that, squeezing in one last attempt now to resist, although you know it will be useless. "Ugh, shut the fuck  _up_ —"

"Or want me to use this big hard cock to shut _you_ up, you filthy slut?"

And that—that is _exactly_ what you want. You fucking throw yourself at Dean, outside the magic circle in an instant, not even caring, falling to your knees in front of him as your desperate mouth devours every inch of his enormous magic cock. _Oh God. Dick is really not supposed to taste this good._ There is no way you could ever get enough of this flavor. You moan around Dean's throbbing length as you suck and savor and swallow him deep down your throat all the way. But even that's not quite enough to satisfy your slutty hunger, fill you up with what you crave. You stick your tongue over your lower lip where it's mashed up against the thick base of his dick, flicking it out against his sweaty sack, relishing the salty taste and musky smell, and _damn, he really likes that_ , you can tell.

"Mmmn, right there, princess. _Fuck_ yes," he groans above you as his forceful fingers frame your head, grabbing your hair to face-fuck you just like the slut you are, and the sound of his husky voice and the sensation of his big, dominant hands have gotten you so hot that you start seeing stars. "All damn day you've been making me hard. Now you're taking this cock so good, sweetheart. So fucking good. Want me to come in your throat, slut? You want your reward?"

Your voice is muffled by the meat that so completely fills your mouth, but nonetheless you're screaming like a whore as you've truly never wanted anything more.

"Such a sweet dirty girl. Sucking cock like a pro, tongue all over my balls, feels so good I could fucking explode. But you know this load isn't meant for your thirsty whore throat," Dean sneers as he then pulls your head off his crotch, hoists you up to your feet, and in what feels like one fluid motion he's suddenly spinning your body around and aggressively bending you over. "Told you I wanted to get in these slutty shorts of yours."

Bracing your arms against the nearest tree, you are beyond ready for Dean to yank your shorts right off your ass. And burning with the urge for him to spank it. Hard. You need that, bad—

_Swack._  

Just. Like. That. _Fuck, this guy can seriously read your mind. And it's divine._

Dean grunts and grabs your hair again with his free hand, thick fingers weaving through the strands, masterfully twined, twisting and tugging as he pulls your skull roughly back. "You like that?"

You shout out something incoherent that's supposed to be a 'yes'—not that it matters, because Dean doesn't even need to hear a word to know the answer. He slaps your needy ass a few times more, each sensuous strike of his savage yet steady, making you shudder with shameless pleasure in your shorts until you're wriggling for him to rip them off of you already, so that you can feel the sharp sting of his brutal hands on your bare skin... but he doesn't.

What he does now is so much hotter, so much better. Because he is Dean Fucking Winchester.

First he yanks off your belt, moving so quick that you can hardly stop to think of how you wish he'd use it on you as a whip, or slide the strip of leather round your neck and choke you with it. He just throws it to the ground. And then he grips your shorts in his impossibly skilled hands, letting out a feral growl as he uses the sheer strength of his fingers and the blunt edge of his nails against the cloth upon your ass to seriously literally _tear your shorts in half._ The fabric, along with the panties you're wearing beneath, splits in a ragged line that Dean then claws to stretch into a gaping open hole right down the crack.

No man, no thing on this earth should be able to do _that_ , in the exquisitely erotic way that he just did. He is living, breathing  _magic_.

And the core of all the magic coursing through Dean's veins is in his massive dick. You know it as it plunges deep inside your dripping pussy from behind, so big and hard now that it feels like he is tearing _you_ in half, and till today you never knew you needed that so bad. You do. He gives it. And it's so painfully perfect.

Dean has been saying filthy dirty shit this whole time. On some level you've been hearing every word, and loving everything you've heard, but mostly you've just lost your fucking mind. Thankfully, as your body and soul begin convulsing in the hardest, hottest climax of your life—making you cry out so loud that both your own brother and Sam, no doubt, have woken up and peeked outside their tents by now—you still have just enough of a hold on your senses to feel Dean's hot come the instant it starts flooding your cunt, erupting hard and fast, and as he then pulls out his cock to spray the rest of his thick, creamy load over your ass, some landing on the torn cloth that's still clinging to your skin, but most of it upon the skin itself, where you can feel it, and it feels fucking amazing.

So does his luscious mouth as he leans in to murmur words into your ear just then, wet lips against your tender skin. "Damn, sweetheart. I don't do shorts..." he snarls with sinful pleasure, "but I sure loved fucking yours."

 

***************

 

The following night, after Dean has played the hero and saved you and your brothers from the wendigo, before you have to say goodbye to him, the two of you end up flirting again. On the surface, you're acting as if that fucking epic sex had never happened. But beneath the surface, you both know that there's no reason to pretend.

"So, really... I don't know how to thank you," you tell him.

In response, Dean just parts his perfect pink lips in a scrumptious smacking motion, then flashes you his signature cocky smirk. There are bandages and bloodstains spattered on his bare neck and his beautiful face, the battle scars from having saved your life, and you're so damn thankful for that, but mostly you're just stunned at how this handsome devil always looks so hot it hurts. His expression in this moment is more eloquent than words. _Thank me for what, you pretty little slut? Saving your ass? Or shooting my sweet come all over it after I fucking tore your shorts in half?_

You smile and say some shit that's straight out of a chick flick, something about cheapening the moment. It's a meaningless line. Because you give him the real answer with your eyes, as you take in the sight of his godlike perfection one last time.  _Thank you for both, Dean. Obviously. One more than the other, though._

The magic in his green eyes fucking glows. He _so_ already knows.

You decide then that you'll kiss him on the cheek before you go. Because a _real_ kiss, sucking on that cocky smirking mouth of his... would just shatter you to pieces. Ruin you harder and faster than a motherfucking wendigo.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading! :)
> 
> Please do keep the kudos and comments coming and I'll keep Dean coming <3


	3. (S01E03) That's Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 3 ("Dead in the Water")*
> 
> *In which you are Wendy the waitress*
> 
> You've been working as a waitress for some time now, waiting tables, really waiting all this while for a gorgeous guy to walk in, come and fuck you hard and dirty in the kitchen.
> 
> This is when Dean Winchester walks in.
> 
> This is what happens after he flashes you a dirty flirty smile while fucking sucking on a pen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So at first I thought the reader in this scene would star as Andrea Barr — she is the main bitch in "Dead in the Water" after all.
> 
> *BUT* then I remembered that famously gifworthy face that Dean makes early on in this episode, sitting in a restaurant and smiling seductively while sucking on his pen (mini spoiler: that gif appears here at the end). Wendy the waitress is the lucky bitch who gets to see that pen-sucking smile in person.
> 
> So I'm sure I'm not the only girl who would kill to be her ;)

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 3 ("Dead in the Water")***

***In which you are Wendy the waitress***

 

 

Waiting tables is no fucking picnic. Balancing big dishes and dirty bowls on tired arms all day, cheap smile pasted on your face as you stand and take orders from strangers, juggling the fine art of angling for a fat tip without looking desperate. For the horndogs and scumbags who stop in this joint, the size of the tip typically just depends on your outfit. The tight top and tiny short shorts that you're wearing today seem to do the trick.

 _It's a shame that the sex-hungry guys who come by tend to be so butt-ugly_ , you think to yourself as you stare out the window. _Or too old. Or both._ Ever since you first started this job, you'd been fantasizing about living out the slutty waitress cliche, getting lucky enough to serve some gorgeous stud who sweeps you off your feet for a minute, just to fuck you hard and dirty in the kitchen. At this point, you're honestly thinking of quitting this unsatisfying gig. But there would be no fun in that kind of exit. You'd much rather be fired for getting caught having hot sex on the counter or against the fridge or something. _You've been craving that for so long, damn it._

Today is the day you finally feel ready to accept that it won't ever happen.

That's when he walks in.

Literal sex on legs soaked in a bottle of hot sauce with a thick serving of extra swagger on top. In blue jeans and a brown leather jacket that you really need to rip off. He is criminally goodlooking, oozing everything you've ever wanted in a man, and your life won't be complete until he takes you in the pantry, ravages you rough and nasty just the way you know he can.

The next half hour of your life is just one great big blur of hormones buzzing through your body as you wait on him. Serving him, taking his orders, catering to his every wish and whim. You even call him 'sir' although you've never done that with your other customers before. You could go on treating him like this forever long after your shift is over, and he knows it, and the way he knows it makes you want him even more.

He’s here with some freakishly tall dude with long hair— _friend? Brother? Gay lover?_ You don’t know, don’t care. As long as whatever he is won't prevent his Ken doll companion from fucking you. Big Bird doesn't seem all that thrilled about the shameless flirting that's happening, though. He's acting all grumpy and emo. So when you see him disappear off to the bathroom, you know that his absence provides your best window.

You lick your lips and cross the restaurant toward the green-eyed dreamboat, watching him closely as you approach. He's reading a paper and randomly circling things in it. The way he can make such an asexual act look X-rated is just straight up stupid. And then he fucking takes his pen between his teeth and starts to suck it, bite it, chew it... _shit_.

His head is still lowered toward his inked up paper as you reach the table. And as you open your mouth to speak now, you're terrified that when he looks back up at you, you'll literally melt. "Can I get you anything else?"

The Adonis raises his pretty face and instantly fucks you to pieces with his gaze. But even more so than his eyes, in this moment, it's his mouth that's really screwing you in every way. Blue pen cap nestled snugly in the cradle of his bottom lip, pressing down on the plump pink flesh, the tip of it pushed in behind his pearly whites, surely wet from brushing up against the luscious tongue inside... and then, sweet hell, the motherfucker _smiles_. Mouth slowly widening and curling at the edges as that wicked pen stays put right where it is. _Seriously, what kind of sick kinky sorcery is this?_

"Just the check, please," an unwelcome voice cuts in.

_Ugh, it's Big Bird. The hulking, sulking, cock-blocking bastard._

The place is kind of empty at this point, so you can hear the two boys talk as you flounce off to fetch the check. You're not sure if they even realize that you can hear everything. Whether they do or not, you are so going to listen.

"You know, Sam, we are allowed to have fun once in a while," the studmuffin reminds the stupid giant.

With your back facing him now, you can't see a thing, but you can feel the force of his forefinger pointing hard in your direction.

You're loving the way he refers to you then like an object, a piece of meat, a fucking plaything, which is so exactly what you want to be for him. " _That's_ fun."

 

***************

 

"All right, Lake Manitoc," Sam says, he and Dean having decided that that's where they're headed for their next case. "Hey!"

The hot waitress is walking by again. Needless to say, she has the elder Winchester's full attention. Dean pouts as he reluctantly turns back toward his brother. "Huh?"

Sam is really running low on patience now. "How far?"

Dean shrugs. "Not so far that it can't wait for me to take a little fuck break."

"Can you _not_?"

"What? Relax, Sammy, I'll let you watch. Or, you know..." Dean purrs as he wiggles his brows at his brother, "we can share if you want."

Sam scowls at him. Hard. _Why does his big bro have to be such an insufferably dirty bastard._ "Dean. The last time we got off in the same room, it was with my girlfriend. Pretty much the love of my life. Then she _died_."

The dirty bastard pauses for a second. Chews his lip, scratches his neck. "Well, Sam, when you say it like that, it's just—"

"Fucked? Yeah. It is."

A longer pause follows before Dean eagerly breaks it. "So, now that the mood's gone to shit—no thanks to you—we sure as hell gotta make ourselves feel better about it. Same way we always do," he states as he slides out of his seat, stands to his feet. "You go cry in the car like a sad little sissy. And me, I'll go bury my sorrows in pussy. Have myself a happy little quickie."

"Nice, Dean. Very healthy," the younger Winchester grumbles with a roll of his eyes. "Make it real quick, you hear me? I'll give you five minutes. That's it."

"You ain't the boss of me. Bitch," Dean shoots back, dropping Sam a wink before he heads off toward the kitchen. "But hey... challenge accepted."

 

***************

 

You can fucking _feel_ him the instant he walks in. He feels like living, breathing sin, and it's the best damn thing.

Without warning, he comes up behind you, lips ghosting at the back of your neck, breath hot and heavy on your skin. "Hey there, sweetheart. Wanna ask me that question again?"

What epic luck that you're alone now in this corner of the kitchen. "Hell yes, gorgeous," you reply, grinding your ass against the hard bulge in his pants, reaching one of your arms back to grab a fistful of his soft spiky hair in your hands. "Can I get you... anything... else?"

"Well," he whispers in your ear as he swivels your body to face him, then leans in to leave open-mouthed kisses and lingering bites on your neck. "You can get me hard. And I can get you wet."

A sigh slips past your lips as your head collapses softly backward, exposing your throat to him, spine arching high over the countertop behind you. _God, you needed this so bad_. "Think we're already doing that."

"Don't you dare talk back," he snaps, fingers suddenly digging hard into the bare skin above your hips, lifting his other hand to press his forefinger against your lips, then dropping it down to encircle your throat in a gentle yet dominant choke, watching your body respond as he thrusts his crotch into your cunt. "Hmm. You like that. Don't you, slut."

_Hooooly shit._ You're already getting high on this. Dizzy and drunk. "Y-yes, sir. _Fuck_..."

"Name's Dean, but sir's an even better word to hear you scream," he growls into your collarbone as he bends forward then, shoving you down against the counter, every move of his so smooth, just fast enough and just the right amount of rough. "We got five minutes, babe. How many times you think I’m gonna make you come?"

His thumbs slide under the straps of your tank top, slipping them over your shoulders, slowly at first, then tugging downward with a sharp jerk to strip the cloth off of your tits— _good thing you didn't wear a bra today_ , you think. _One less layer between you and him._ You didn't wear underwear either, because you're a kinky slut who likes the way the ridges of cloth at the crotch of your shorts rub up all day against your clit.

Your arms are trapped tightly in place beneath his firm grasp. As his soft lips clamp hard around one of your nipples, you tremble and gasp, aching to answer the question he'd asked. "With a mouth like that? As many as you want."

Another deep growl rumbles from his gullet. "Damn right. And this mouth ain’t the only thing I’ve got. Not the only thing you’re gonna feel working up this sweet, tight little cunt," Dean says as one of his hands rubs your clit through your shorts, which he then swiftly unbuttons and slides down your thighs. "Sugar, you’re about to have the best five fucking minutes of your life."

Your tank top and shorts are flung onto the floor in a second, along with his jacket and shirt. _Damn, he moves fast_ , you marvel in silence as you stare in awe at his mighty fine abs and his muscular chest.

Dean's own eyes are riveted on your cunt as he unbuckles his belt. "Gonna make this pretty pussy come so good for me. How many times can you take, baby?"

" _God_ , I—I'll take everything you give, sir. Please."

He lets out a little chuckle, smug and cocky. "That many? So needy. Soaking wet already," he murmurs as he whips his cock out with one hand and uses the other to assault your slick folds with his skillful fingers. "Hmmm, let’s make it five."

That's really not supposed to be humanly possible, especially since at least one minute has already passed since you got started, you should realize. But you don't. You cannot think straight anymore because the feeling of his fingers on your pussy is pure heaven, and the sight of his enormous, gorgeous cock has got you hypnotized.

"Five times in five minutes. That sound about right?" Dean asks as he leans in to bite your neck again. You both know it's not really a question. Whatever he wants, that's what's going to happen. You couldn't doubt him or deny him even if you tried. "Honey, I'm gonna eat you alive."

Even just hearing him say that makes you want to die. Blissed out beyond belief, you shut your eyes and squeeze them tight.

Your eyes open again as you feel something on your lips all of a sudden. It's not what you would've expected—his magic fingers maybe, or his massive dick. It takes you a second to realize what it is. _Oh. It's that damn pen that he had been sucking._

Dean is snickering wickedly when your gaze meets his again. He's swiping the blue pen cap teasingly over your lips, pushing it in. "Saw how much you loved watching me chew on this thing. Kinky bitch. Now it's your turn. Fucking suck it."

_This really should not be as hot as it is..._

He lets go of the pen once it's securely lodged between your lips. "That's it. Pretend it's my big fucking dick."

You moan without letting the thing slip out from your clenched teeth, and your words are sort of garbled when you speak. "But, sir, then I would swallow it."

"Mmm, bet you would, you filthy little cockslut," he devilishly taunts as his fingers keep teasing your needy wet cunt. "But I'm gonna need you to keep it tight between those pretty lips. Just four more minutes. It'll be worth it, promise."

You believe it. All you want to do is give this gorgeous god whatever the fuck he wants, and you'll get off on every second of it.

"Can you do that for me, bitch?"

"Yes, sir. Promise."

"That's a good slut. Now you're gonna come with my thumb on your clit," he says, moving his hand off of your cunt for a split second, making you gasp from the sudden absence of his touch, both of you knowing that you've never needed anything so much, "just... like... this."

All it takes is a quick little flick, his thumb a thing of fucking magic, making you explode and shatter into pieces.

The sound of his velvet voice just then in the middle of your orgasm is making you see stars. "Count 'em for me, sweetheart. Loud and hard."

" _One..._!" you scream out, making sure to keep the pen tight in your mouth for him. "Thank you sir, thank you for letting me come!"

" _Fuuuck_ , yes, such a good little whore. Fucking perfect. You want more?"

"Please, sir!"

He plunges one of his fingers deep inside your throbbing pussy. Then another. "How many fingers is that, baby girl?"

"Two! Two, sir, thank you..."

"Two, huh? Gonna come a second time for me already?"

_Oh, my God, yes you fucking are,_ because the way those perfect fingers push and pull and twist and turn inside of you right now is everything you need and suddenly you are gushing all over them, squirting all over his hand in a way that you never even knew you could, quaking and quivering like crazy because nothing on this earth should ever feel so fucking good.

"Holy shit. Squirting all over me, you dirty little bitch," Dean breathes, shifting a bit to bring one of his sticky fingers to his lips and fucking suck it. "Mmmm. Taste so good, baby. Think you can take my tongue all over this tight pussy?"

It sounds like a death sentence in this moment, but _damn_ , what a sweet way to die that would be. "Fuck yes, sir, _please_...!"

Dean doesn't hesitate, doesn't waste a second. His impossibly hot mouth devours you as if you are the most delicious thing he's ever eaten. Upper lip pillowing perfectly around your clit, as that plump lower lip of his presses sweet kisses all over your fluttering folds, anchoring his talented tongue as it strokes and squirms its way into your cunt, diving inside, hard and tight as he drives it home deep in your dripping wet hole. After less than a minute of this, you're squirting _again_ , even harder this time around, all over his beautiful face and straight into his breathtaking mouth.

Dean has taken you _so high_ three fucking times already, each time before the last is even done, before you've even come back down. The pen is fucking vibrating against your teeth, from you screaming so loud.

"So damn good, baby. Fucking love that sweet pussy coming all over me," he growls, moving back up now to assault your gasping throat with his slick mouth. "Little slut lost count?"

"Oh God, no, sir—three!" you shriek, and you swear you're on the verge of four as you feel the head of his dick suddenly rubbing against your pulsating pussy. "Thank you so much, sir, please, I... I need your cock inside me... _now_..."

"Yeah? This big cock deep inside your cunt? That what you want?" he teases as he swirls the tip over your aching clit. Of course it is—it's not as if he needs to hear you say it. "Needy bitch. Take it."

Dean fucks the same way he does everything else. The same way he just fucking exists. Hard and hot as hell. Explosive and exquisite. Powerful and perfect. You are coming all over again in a matter of seconds. _How the fuck does he do this._

"Four!" you cry out, loud, your whole goddamned body and soul throbbing and thrashing like a whore. "God, fuck, thank you sir..."

"Mm-hmm," he hums, huge cock still buried in your hole, thrusting in even harder and faster than before.  "Good girl. Think you can come for me again, sweetheart? Gimme just... one... more..."

You want to, more than anything, you really do, but at this point you're just so fucking spent, so fucking sore— _just... how can you even_? You're really not sure.

So Dean shows you exactly how. Right now. _Holy... wow. You should've known._ While he keeps on pounding your pussy like a fucking plow, he's gonna make you come with both of his big hands wrapped tight around your throat.

"Yes, filthy slut, you fucking love that," he groans. "Love my hands around your throat, making you choke. Know you're close, baby. So fucking close. Gonna make you come right now, bitch. Just... like... this."

Then Dean suddenly seals your lips with his in a sensuous kiss, which really is sealing your fate as his bitch, taking the pen in between his own teeth and sucking it straight out of your mouth, slipping the wet stick from your lips smooth and slow, pulling the fifth fucking climax right out of you just as he reaches his own, filling you up with his hot, creamy come as the both of you fucking explode.

It's so far beyond anything you've ever known. You gasp as his lips finally lift off of yours, his fingers loosening their grip around your throat. He wants to hear you count this one. "F-five. Thank you, sir," you breathlessly moan.

Dean is not even fucking done driving you ever the edge with his dominant dirty talk as your cunt drains every last drop of come out of his cock.

"God, _fuck_ yes. You did so damn good, baby. Such a good little girl for me," he praises, spitting the pen onto the counter now so that he can smother your mouth with a passionate kiss, grunting out words in that hot husky voice of his as you suck all over each other's slick, sex-swollen lips. "Yeah, ughhh, such a good... fucking...  _bitch_."

You have no clue how this even happens, but hearing and feeling and tasting him breathe that word straight down your throat makes you—um—come undone all over again, cunt convulsing and milking the final few spurts of sweet come from his dick.

And Dean notices. "Mmmm, was that six?" he hums against your lips. "Guess you got more than you came for. Aren't you just a greedy, naughty little whore."

" _Yes._ Yes, sir. Only for you," you murmur desperately, because it’s true. "Want more."

He lets out a cocky little snicker of a laugh, at that. "Sluts like you always do."

And then, with one last kiss, he's slipping his throbbing cock out of your core, sliding his glorious sweat-glossed body off of yours, and _fucking shit_ , you've never felt such utter emptiness.

"H-how are you so fucking _hot_?" you ask him as he throws his clothes back on, genuinely wondering, still lying naked on the counter as you watch his every move in awe. "You're, like a... a goddamn sex god."

Dean smirks as he shrugs swiftly into his shirt. "Aw, honey, I get that a lot. Though usually it's after the girl gets a taste of my cock."

_Oh, God_ —how can he say shit like that and not expect you to fucking fall onto your knees, lunge to rip off his jeans...

You start doing just that, obviously, but one dominant look from him is somehow powerful enough to make you stop. "Sorry, sweetheart—check the clock. Time's up," he says, reaching down briefly to stroke your head, still exercising his absolute control over you even with a gesture that's so fucking pure and soft. "Trust me, baby girl, I'm doing you a favor. The hungry little cockslut you are, once you get just one hit of this flavor... you ain't never getting enough."

 

***************

 

"Just like I said it would be, Sammy," Dean sighs as he swings the car door open, settling into the driver's seat. " _That_ was fucking  _fun_. Ask me how—"

Sam is in no mood to play along. "Dean. I am _not_ asking you how many times you made her come."

"Why the hell not?"

"Cause I don't wanna hear you gloating all day long about how you're some kind of sex god."

"Aw, Sam, now you're making me blush," Dean playfully gushes. "Sex god, huh?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Would you just shut up and drive?"

"Hey, those were _your_ words. Not mine—yours," his big brother reminds him, smirking and nodding back toward the restaurant. "And hers. And, you know, maybe just a few others'..."

"You are the literal worst," Sam grumbles beneath his breath. "Jerk."

"More like the fucking _best_. You know it. And you love it," Dean says with his signature dirty bastard smile as he finally turns the key in the ignition and starts Baby's engine. "Bitch."

 

**************

 

Through the window, you watch him drive off in that shiny black sex-on-wheels car. Thinking about how, for the rest of your life, you're definitely gonna have a freaky little kink: _for pens, of all things. Particularly ballpoints with blue ink_. It's super twisted, and you're not exactly proud or glad about it, but your time with Dean was worth it. Now this innocent office supply that you see every day will be something juicy to remember him by. A reason to reminisce about those big green eyes, the way he fit so perfectly between your thighs, how his masterful hands and massive cock and magic mouth made you come crashing down crazy hard so many times from the highest of highs. _Five times—no, six—in five minutes._ The best five fucking minutes of your life.

A sad smile rises to your lips as the Impala vanishes beyond your line of vision. Sad because of how much you already miss him. But smiling as you actually are glad about this quirky kink you'll always have, you realize then. Glad that, thanks to this glorious god of a man, you can never look at a goddamn pen the same way again.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is actually the first scene that I've ever written with Dean giving oral sex and the first time I've envisioned him focusing on someone else's pleasure — generally I'm way more turned on by the idea of him getting his gorgeous cock sucked, and having his godlike come as the focus and purpose of everything, not the other way around. But because he was still such a dom during all of this, I have to admit that I fucking loved writing it. Hope you liked reading it :) I'd love to hear it if you did!
> 
> Thanks so much again for the kudos and comments! <3


	4. (S01E04) That Can't Be Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 4 ("Phantom Traveler")*
> 
> *In which you are Amanda the stewardess*
> 
> There's a demon possessing someone on this plane. But that's not the only freaky thing you'll learn today.
> 
> No, you're gonna learn something even freakier. Today you get to find out—firsthand—that the Winchesters are fucking dirty kinky bastards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay soooo heads up: this scene ends up heading in a Wincesty direction. For those who usually aren't fans of Wincest (myself included), don't worry — it still definitely will not be the focus of this fic. It just became inevitable in this scene when I was choosing the gifs for it. And the way this XXX series is going so far, I feel like it's impossible for Sam not to be obsessed with Dean's dick. (I mean, let's face it, who isn't.)
> 
> But any Wincest stuff will just be a sideshow to the Dean/Reader action in this fic, I promise. Whether you're into Wincest or not, I hope you enjoy this :)

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 4 ("Phantom Traveler")***

***In which you are Amanda the stewardess***

 

 

_Fucking planes._

Dean tries to stay steady and sane as he walks back toward his seat, sucking in long deep breaths. Tells himself not to be a pussy about the turbulence. To just keep humming Metallica in his head, and to focus on nice, happy thoughts, like the thought of hot sex with the cute stewardess. Slamming that sweet little slut hard up against the fucking beverage cart. He wishes he could've—definitely would've, under any other circumstances, on any other night—but that would've been irresponsible even by his standards. He and Sam don't have much time to find and exorcise the demon hiding on this goddamned flight. They have to finish that within the next twenty-ish minutes. Or else everybody dies.

As Dean sits back down, he tells his brother that the flight attendant is too well-adjusted to be a target of demonic possession. That's when the plane starts violently shaking all of a sudden.

And that's when he feels Sam's hand slide into his lap. It's supposedly a gesture of comfort, to ease his aerophobic brother's panic. _But it's not, goddamnit; that big palm is pressing right down on his dick._

Dean's whole body jolts in response to the lurching aircraft as well as the unwelcome grip on his shaft. "Come on, that can't be normal!" he snaps.

"Hey—hey, it's just a little turbulence," Sam reassures him.

The elder Winchester shoots his brother an unamused glare. _No, bitch, I'm talking about your damn hand on my dick._  Before he says it, Sam has moved his palm off of the crotch of Dean’s jeans, as if it never happened, which is a good thing because Dean is dead set on pretending that it never did. This isn't the first time that Sam has done something like this. _Kinky incestuous piece of shit._

They get back to talking about turbulence, then investigate the demon business for the next few minutes, but it's kind of fucking hard to focus.

And of course his little bitch of a brother has to go and call him out on it. Right after they've determined that the demon is possessing the copilot.

"Dean, honestly, I think you're too plane-sick to function. You should sit down and try to relax," Sam obnoxiously suggests. "I can handle this."

Dean shakes his head. "No way in hell—"

"Seriously, you're just gonna get us all screwed if you try to help. You look like you're gonna throw up."

"Yeah, well, maybe it's because my kid brother just tried to give me a damn hand job."

Sam pauses for a second. "Really, Dean? This is about _that_? I was just gonna help you calm down a bit. God knows you needed it."

" _Needed it?_ The last thing I need is my baby bro groping my dick."

"Dean. You do realize it's not the first time I've touched..."

"House rules, Sam," Dean reminds him. "We don't touch each other's junk—hell, we don't even _look_ —unless there's a chick in the room with us."

The younger Winchester sighs and rolls his eyes. _Dean and his stupid sex rules. Such a prude._  But Sam knows better than to try to persuade him to bend the rules tonight. _That'll have to be another time._

Besides, he has a better idea in mind. "Fine," he huffs. "But we're not working this job until you've drained the pipes. You're useless like this."

"Fuck you, bitch, I'm never useless—"

"Whatever, jerk," Sam mumbles as he heads toward the back of the plane, dragging his brother along with him. "Let's get that stewardess."

 

***************

 

You're in the middle of shamelessly fantasizing about that super hot passenger who had come back here to flirt with you earlier—trying to figure out what 'Christo' meant, that word he'd said before he left; _was it some kinky sex reference you didn't understand? Had you missed your chance?_ —when you look up and see him pushing past the dark blue curtains, joining you in this tight space behind them again.

Of course, your instinct is to literally pounce on him. But then you see he's not alone. He's here now with another taller man, presumably his traveling companion.

You try to stay professional and composed, quietly clearing your throat. "Oh, hi. Flight's not too bumpy for you, I hope?"

"Actually," the gorgeous guy replies, mesmerizing you with every word that comes out of his sweet sinful mouth, "that's kind of what we need to talk to you about."

You furrow your brows. Hopefully the expression helps to hide just how turned on you are right now. "Um, okay. What can I do for you?"

He exchanges a tense look with his big, tall friend, who is closing the curtain.

And then the friend speaks. "You can get on your knees and start sucking his dick."

_Oh. That was quick._

The friend keeps talking, wasting no time getting down to business. "You see, Dean here is a bit of an uneasy flier."

"Sam, I—I already told her..." Dean murmurs.

But Sam ignores the interruption. "And the best way for him to calm down," he says as he reaches for Dean's belt and quickly unbuckles it, before the guy even has time to react, "is to come. Hard and fast. Think you can help with that?"

"Yes," you instantly whisper, not even surprised at how eager you are to comply. You watch in rapture as Dean does react now, the dom in him clearly spurred on by your whorish desperation. He swats Sam's hand away from his belt and unzips his fly himself.

"Then get on your knees, bitch," Dean commands in a deep, husky growl as he whips out his semi-hard dick. It's thick and pink and fucking perfect. "And suck it."

You don't hesitate for so much as a second. _That_ is how fucking hot this guy is. Ever since you first set eyes on him, all you wanted was to do exactly this. Kneeling before him, gawking up at his beautiful cock, you start by wrapping your lips around the leaking head in a passionate kiss. With his free hand, Dean grabs your hair to pull your face in deeper and hold it in place, right there, as he pumps up and down his length, each upstroke pounding into your overstretched lips with his powerful fist. Flicking your ravenous tongue into his slit to lick up his precome, you gaze reverently up at his ravishing face, unable to believe how delicious his cock tastes, how perfect he is. His green eyes lock on yours as you moan out in bliss while soaking in his divine beauty and the flavor of his juices. You lift both of your hands up toward him then, on instinct, right hand joining his fist to stroke his stiffening shaft as your left hand massages his full, heavy sack.

" _Dean_. We should really try to finish this in, like, a minute," Sam's demanding voice cuts in. "Think you'll come faster with a bigger hand around your dick. Like this."

"Ugh, Sam— _shit_..." Dean hisses as the taller man's hand suddenly attacks his dick. Sam sharply tugs your wrist to force your fist off of it, replacing your grip with his as he begins vigorously jerking off Dean's huge cock, white knuckles slamming hard against your lips.

 _Kinky_ , you think. And you like it.

Meanwhile Dean's own grip has fallen away from his shaft, as if offended by the idea of bumping fists with the other guy, afraid to make hand-to-hand contact. Yet he's not stopping what's happening. He's bigger and harder now, with his turgid meat wrapped tightly in Sam's grasp; there's no denying that. Dean keeps his other hand twined in your hair, anchoring your head there as his own head falls back, jaw dropping open in a heated gasp. You can feel Sam's bigger hand at the back of your skull as he keeps on pumping Dean into your mouth, gathering up all the gobs of precome and spit that are now sloshing out past your lips, each stroke harder and faster than the last.

Dean seems too blissed out to speak at the moment; it comes as no shock when Sam starts to dish out his own dirty talk. "Yeah, just look at this dirty slut. Slobbering all over your big juicy cock."

"Oh, God...!" Dean groans loudly above you. " _Fuck_..."

"Letting me feed it right into her fucking face," Sam goes on, getting you hotter and wetter with each word he says. "Damn, Dean, look how much she loves it. Nasty little bitch. Tell him how good he tastes."

Then he yanks your head back till your mouth suddenly pops off of Dean's dick, his rough hand tangling in your hair as your lungs instinctively take in big gasps of air.

"Say it, slut," Sam orders, licking his lips and continuing to manhandle Dean's massive length as both men stare down at your slutty face. "Say it. Tell me how fucking good he tastes."

You had been ready— _eager, really_ —to tell Dean, as Sam had commanded initially. But now Sam apparently wants you to say it to _him_ , for some reason. Powerless to do anything else, you gaze up at the tall stranger towering over you and obey. "God, _so_ fucking good," you gush, completely meaning every word of what you say. "His big beautiful cock is the best thing I've ever tasted. Fucking perfect."

"Ughhhhh, holy  _shit_..." Sam lets out a feral grunt, throwing his head back, which is when you notice the stiff bulge growing and twitching in his pants. He then looks down and moves your head to place your gaping mouth directly underneath the tip of Dean's delicious dick while he keeps on desperately stroking it. "God, Dean, need you to just— _fuck_... come all over this bitch."

Basically on the instant, Dean's big cock convulses and starts spurting rope after rope of sweet, creamy come over your face. Some lands on your forehead, some on your nose, your cheeks, but thankfully most of it shoots straight into your mouth, and you can't help but moan in pleasure at the taste. Your throat begins contracting to drink every precious drop, swallow it down—

But that isn't what Sam wants. "Don't swallow it, you desperate fucking cunt. Hold all of his come in your dirty whore mouth."

You do as told. Every cell in your body wants to disobey right now, to savor Dean's luscious come, gulp it all down. But the thought of defying Sam's command is downright terrifying, and you're definitely not that bold.

The tall guy's hazel eyes are fixated on your mouth now, open wide. "I wanna see you fucking gargle it. That's it, blow big wet bubbles with that sweet hot come. You thirsty little bitch."

 _This_ order you are happy to obey, because Dean's come is fucking worth it and because you are a kinky piece of shit.

Dean watches you in fascination for a second, his perfect cock still throbbing, fully drained but not yet softening. And then his eyes dart over to the other guy who's so intently watching you, no doubt noticing how much Sam is enjoying this. Dean squirms and starts shoving his dick back in his pants. "Okay, Sam, let's—"

"Think I forgot the holy water, Dean," Sam interrupts, his wild gaze never once leaving your face. "Can you go get it?"

"Uh... yeah, sure," Dean answers. You can tell that he normally never would have taken such an order, but right now he's clearly uncomfortable as hell, so he's just glad for the excuse to briefly get the fuck out of here.

As soon as he's gone, closing the curtain behind him, Sam leans down and fucking devours your face in a deep, sloppy kiss. His lips clamp over yours as his long tongue explores your whole mouth to suck every last drop of come out. You almost fight back—because  _damn it, you really wanted to drink all of that_ —but you know that this man, obsessed as he is with Dean's juices, would probably sooner kill you than let you resist. You can't blame him, really, when the thick come that's flooding your mouth tastes as good as this. So you just succumb to the long, kinky kiss.

When Dean returns in a few seconds, pretty face poking into the space as he parts the blue curtains, Sam is drowning so deeply in the kiss then that he doesn't even notice.

Dean just stands there and blinks. Your eyes lock on his, and your silent gaze tells him the truth, though you're sure that he already knows it. _This is what you do to us. You are so damn gorgeous that just one look at your flawless face can make anyone fall crazy in love. And your divine cock and delicious come can turn anyone—yes, even this big tall kinky son of a bitch, your best friend, or whoever he is—into a desperate fucking slut._

After some time, Sam finally pulls back from the kiss, licking off the rest of the mess that had landed on your forehead and cheeks, then wiping droplets of sweet, sticky come from his lips, sucking it off of his own fingers as he stands and turns toward Dean.

You can tell that Dean wishes he weren't turned on by what he sees. "My God, you're a freak."

"Like you didn't know that already," Sam mutters unapologetically. "Okay—listen. We have less than ten minutes to exorcise the demon from the copilot and save everyone on this plane. So if it helps you function better, for now, we can just pretend this never happened."

"Damn straight we're gonna pretend," Dean grumbles, about to do exactly that, but then pausing as he looks down at your empty open mouth, where you're still kneeling like a dumb whore on the floor. He glares at Sam, clearly upset. "Hey, did—did you even let her have any of that?"

Sam absent-mindedly licks the last drop of white stuff off of his lips. "What?"

"You greedy pig," Dean snaps at him before turning and reaching down to cup your chin, smirking down at you as your adoring gaze looks up at him in absolute submission. "Don't worry, sweetheart. Sammy's a selfish little son of a bitch, but there's plenty more where that, um— _came_ from."

You don't doubt it. And you really fucking want it. Want to suck every last drop from that big, perfect dick.

"Now we're gonna tell you some crazy shit about the copilot. It's gonna sound nuts," Dean warns you, dominantly stroking your cheek as his emerald eyes remain locked hard on yours. "But if you believe us, and just do what we say like a good little girl, then after this plane lands... I promise you'll get your reward."

 

***************

 

Lucky for you—as you'll learn later that day, when he fucks you like a cheap slut in a bathroom at the airport—Dean Winchester is a man of his word. You're so fucking grateful when he explodes his sweet load down your throat and lets you swallow it all just the way you so desperately want and deserve.

And that big tall 'best friend' traveling with him—as you'll learn even later on, sort of by accident, after Dean agrees to let Sam join in on fucking you again—is actually his motherfucking  _brother_.

 _That can't be normal_ , you realize as you finally say goodbye to them that night, making sure to give Dean your number. But it's not as if that matters. Apparently, you're not normal either, and you don't want to be, because you straight up _loved_ every second of getting ravaged by the supernaturally hot Dean and his supernormally freaky brother. The brother who is clearly just as sluttishly crazy about Dean as you are. You'll never forget that precious look you saw on Dean's perfect face when he peered past the curtains and realized that his kid brother is fucking obsessed with his come, and honestly, probably secretly in love with him. That sure as hell can't be normal.

 _But so what. Fuck normal_ , you think as you watch the brothers drive off, knowing you most likely won't see them again. Ever. You hope you may, someday—you'll let yourself get fucked like a whore any day by the Winchesters.

You fucking love those dirty kinky bastards.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your kudos and comments! I always love to hear if you're enjoying this! <3


	5. (S01E05) If You're Gonna Scream, Go Right Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 5 ("Bloody Mary")*
> 
> *In which you are that schoolgirl Charlie (not Bradbury)*
> 
> Soon after the hottest guy you've ever seen arrives onto the scene, and then starts acting shady, you confront him and are dumb enough to threaten him. To threaten that if he doesn't come clean, you're going to scream.
> 
> Naturally—or more like supernaturally—Dean proceeds to make you scream in ways you've never fucking dreamed.

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 5 ("Bloody Mary")***

***In which you are that schoolgirl Charlie (not Bradbury)***

 

 

Funerals are so not supposed to be sexy.

But as soon as this tall drink of water— _scratch that, more like a tall shot of fireball whiskey_ —shows up on the scene, suddenly sexy is exactly what this funeral is going to be.

You try hard not to stare, not to be smitten by the broad frame of his shoulders, the fuckable spikes of his rich light brown hair. Damn it, you should really be focusing on comforting Donna and mourning her dad. But how the hell are you supposed to, when a life-ruining ladykiller walks into the yard looking like _that_.

Everything else in your field of vision fades as you gawk at him from across the lawn. It's not as if you've never seen a hot guy before; it's just that none have ever come anywhere close to this one. Somehow from this distance, you can hear his voice as he says something to the taller man beside him, who is cute too, though he falls short of the sex god status that's exuding from the other dude.

The Adonis mutters something to his friend about being underdressed. It's true—everyone else here is formally clad in black, whereas these jerks in their ultra-casual jackets and jeans aren't quite suited to pay their respects.

Yet all you can think now is just the opposite: that the man is _over_ dressed. Because a body so ridiculously fine has no right to be anything but naked. Even through the thick layers of his clothes, you already know that every fucking inch of him is perfect. Especially his...

_Oh my God wait is he seriously walking over here right now goddamnit yes he is like holy what the actual shit_. That's pretty much your train of thought as the sex god approaches. Really, you're just proud that you managed somehow not to shamelessly shout it aloud. And proud that your tongue hasn't yet fallen out of your mouth.

For better or for worse, those evergreen eyes aren't on you when he arrives. He's looking at your best friend, daughter of the dead guy, sitting by your side. "You must be Donna, right?" 

_Fuck you Donna. Like, I know your dad just died, and that must suck, so cursing you out in my head right now is super crazy bitchy, but, well, fuck you very much._

You struggle to smother that thought, but you can't shut it up. You've always been known as a sweet-hearted innocent schoolgirl type all around town, but now, it seems your inner witch has been rudely awakened along with your deep inner slut.

Apparently the tall guy is named Sam; the green-eyed stunner's name is Dean. _Dean_ , your whorish brain begins to echo on repeat. So that's the name your inner slut was born to scream.

They start dishing condolences to Donna, not paying you any attention at all, and it's pissing you off.

"I don't think she really wants to talk about this right now," you blurt out.

Donna says she's okay. You glare at her to convey something like  _bitch, that is not what you're supposed to say._

Sam is still just ignoring you completely. But Dean... Dean's gaze lands on you then for just one split second. And that second is literal heaven. Because maybe you're dreaming— _who are you kidding, you're definitely fucking dreaming_ —but that quick look, the glint of mischief in those glowing emerald orbs, seemed to convey something like _yeah, I know how bad you want this big dick. Come and get it, whore._

For the next minute, Dean's gaze is back on Donna, the undeserving bitch, then on her little sister when she starts spouting that stupid 'Bloody Mary' shit. He doesn't look at you again until after this useless conversation is finished. Until the second just before he and Sam turn toward the house to head back in. Right that second, he shoots you the same look. Seals it with the hottest little shadow of a smirk. It's like he wants to make you come just from the sheer force of his piercing stare, the panty-drenching power of that smirk...

And— _holy... what the... shit_ —it sort of fucking works.

 

***************

 

_That had to be the last you'll ever see of him_ , you realize a few minutes later as you head indoors. The super sexy stranger surely hadn't meant to stick around much longer. No doubt a guy like that has places to go, people to do, no business being here—you'd bet money that he never even knew Donna's father. Sure enough, he's nowhere to be seen here in the living room or anywhere on the first floor.

A disgruntled sigh huffs loudly out of your scowling mouth. You should've just pounced, or at least asked for his number, back in the yard when you had the chance. _But of course the shy schoolgirl inside you had other plans. Too pure, too prude, too much of a scared little pussy for that._ Of course she had to rear her head, force you to keep your dirty urges in your pants.

You're just beyond pissed at yourself for missing out on that fine piece of ass. Those faces he was making, he clearly would've been down to fuck in a heartbeat, if only you'd asked. You feel the need to fucking scream right now, but in the middle of your best friend's father's funeral, you obviously can't.

Maybe if you shut yourself in the second-story bathroom for a minute, you can at least yell at yourself in the mirror or something. If you can't manage a satisfying scream, you can at least blow off a little bit of steam.

You stomp up the stairs, sexually frustrated steam practically fuming out of your ears, and then—

_Oh. Holy fuckery. What is he doing up here?_

You had actually asked that out loud, you belatedly realize, as Dean now replies. "We—we had to go to the bathroom."

It's beyond fucked how much of a turn-on it is as your mind fills with the image of this flawless Adonis standing over the toilet, whipping out his thick dick and taking a... _what the fuck, stop it, you sick twisted bitch._ You bite your lip to stifle back a slutty moan and hope he didn't hear it.

His lip curls up the slightest bit in that cunt-soaking smirk. _Oh, he definitely heard._

"Who are you?" you snap, supposedly spooked by the fact that these mystery men are acting kind of shady and don't really seem to belong at this funeral. But really you're just asking this picture-perfect creature who the fuck he is, how he so exquisitely came to exist. That kind of sexual sorcery isn't supposed to be possible.

He pulls out the same bullshit that he'd given back in the yard. Something about working with Donna's dad. You call him out on how you know that's not true, because you're not about to stand here and let him try to fool you. God knows he could fool your ass off if he wants to, but you really need him to shut up and screw you.

"And all those weird questions downstairs, what was that?" you demand, struggling to stay sane as you stare straight into his crystalline eyes, green and gleaming. "So you tell me what's going on, or I start screaming."

At that, the fucker starts subtly smirking at you again—he knows just how bad you've been needing to scream, and he knows the real reason—and _ugh, if you weren't so damn desperate to worship his dick, you would so want to kill him_.

Sam fills in and starts doing the talking. Some crap about how Mr. Shoemaker's stroke was atypical, how the cause of death probably wasn't medical. As if there's any way that it could've been anything else. _Shit—these guys are nuts_ , you think. But maybe that's a good thing. Maybe that means Dean has a whole lot of freaky kinks.

When Dean speaks up again, it's in response to how you'd threatened to start screaming. To say something so hot that you can feel your pussy fucking dripping. "So, if you're gonna scream... go right ahead."

Yeah, that kills you dead.

"Who are you, cops?" you ask, which leads to you imagining Dean telling you to get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head.

He smirks. _Again_. "Something like that."

Sam interrupts then, which stops you from immediately kneeling down before the green-eyed snack to rip the jeans right off his ass. The tall guy is writing down his number, urging you to call him if you notice anything "strange, out of the ordinary"—presumably referring to strange crap other than the the fact that the guy next to him is a literal sex god whose cock is probably more addictive than crack. Sam hands you the paper with his digits, and you take it, but... but then they start to fucking walk away, and _hell no, you are so not having that_.

"H-hey," you breathlessly say.

Dean turns around first. Silent, for the moment, lips still lifted in that same suckable smirk.

Sam breaks the brief silence. "What?"

You're still just standing there hypnotized by Dean's mouth. Desperately needing that mouth to eat you the fuck out.

The tall guy heaves a sigh, a knowing glimmer in his hazel eyes. "Okay, I get it. You want _his_ number instead of mine. Don't you."

It's not really a question when it's so painfully true.

"Of course you do," Sam continues, and as your eyes finally flit toward him for a second, you could've sworn there's a look on his face that conveys something like  _I can't blame you_.

Your gaze instantly rivets back on Dean as he starts slowly coming toward you then, and speaks again. "Well, that's cute."

Desire soaks you through and through. Your inner slut replies with hungry eyes, your tongue too paralyzed to speak the truth.  _Not as cute as the faces that you're gonna make when I'm deepthroating you._

Next thing you know, Dean is standing right in front of you, and he smells so damn good, his voice so rich and smooth, that the scent and the sound fucking make your toes curl. "You want my digits, baby girl?"

The smirk on his face widens and darkens as he raises his thick middle finger to brush it seductively over your lips, pulling it back when your tongue instinctively flicks out for a lick.

"Mmm, you greedy little bitch," he growls as his hand drops to take your chin in a firm grip. "Look at you, so desperate for these digits in your dirty mouth. Bet you'd do anything to get my number, huh. So fucking needy."

Your mouth is now a drooling mess because this dirty-talking god is inches from your face and he is so damn pretty.

"Well, let me tell you, baby," he murmurs, leaning in toward your ear, taking the tender lobe between his teeth as he speaks, "that ain't something I give easy. I don't give anything easy."

When he starts nibbling then, a rush of air escapes your lungs, a strained gasp lifting into something that sounds like a question. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. 'Cause everything I give," Dean whispers as he suddenly bites down, savage and sharp, just short of drawing blood. "I give it _hard_."

Another gasp bursts out of you, low and loud. "Oh _Goddddd_..."

"And you're gonna take it. And you're gonna love it," he grunts as he lowers his rough hand from your chin to seize your neck and shoves you up against the wall. "Aren't you, sweetheart."

"Yes, sir," you whimper, breath coming in whorish moans, reveling in how his grip feels strong enough to fucking break you to the bone. "I need it. Please, I... want you to— _ugh_ —fuck my face _so_  fucking hard."

"Mmmm. Yeah, that's it, slut," Dean snarls as he thrusts his hips forward, grinding up against your soaking cunt, using the force of his hard, bulging crotch to pin your ass against the wall.

His deep green gaze remains fixated on your flushed face; with the words that he says next, he doesn't bother looking at the friend who is making no secret of his presence, lingering to watch what's happening, no doubt wanting in, casting a tall, dark shadow over all of it. "Sammy, why don't you go back downstairs. Give us a minute."

"Ugh, _Dean_..." Sam groans, his voice heavy with need, "can't we just—"

"I said," Dean rasps, shooting a dark sidelong glare at his friend without even turning his head, "get your ass downstairs."

Sam is very clearly pissed about this. But he is also very clearly Dean's bitch, so he'll do whatever he says. And Dean has a damn good reason for wanting you alone right now, right here. Not that Sam cares.

But you do. And Dean does. And that's all that matters. He leans in to bite your lower lip, mouth dropping to your neck where it's bare just above his fist, sucking hickeys into your sensitive flesh with each kiss, ones that you hope will always fucking linger there, growling the reason viciously into your skin right before pushing you down on your knees before him, dominant fingers tangling in your hair. "This dirty whore doesn't wanna share."

_Fuck. Yes._ You want, need, _all_ of Dean. As Sam shuffles off down the stairs and Dean finally pulls out his massive, rock hard cock to fuck your face against the wall, the sensation of devouring him deep in your throat is motherfucking heaven, so damn divine that you can't help but scream. Your entire mouth is filled up with his meat, so the shrill sound has nowhere to go—it just fucking thrums and throbs inside of you and all around him as he pounds you. The pure, powerful perfection of the god towering over you right now, his huge cock pummeling your mouth, is beyond anything you've ever dreamed. Everything about Dean so completely just subdues you and surrounds you. When he at last unloads, with a loud groan that's rough as gravel, smooth as velvet, and by far the hottest sound you've ever heard, you scream in bliss as if not just your throat but your whole fucking soul is gulping down what feels like gallons of hot, gooey, scrumptious come, and just... _ugh_ , there was so fucking much that you're sure he is done.

But no—somehow, he's not. Because he is a fucking _god_.

"Shit. Took that cock so good, you filthy bitch," he grunts as he slips his throbbing cock out of your throat, swipes his thumb over your trembling lips, wiping off stray drops of come then feeding them to you, letting you slavishly suck all the sweet, sticky cream from his fingertips. "Look how much you love it. Fucking worshiping this dick and every damn drop that comes out of it."

Every word out of Dean's delicious mouth is so degrading and so dirty and you cannot get enough of it.

"Is this what gets you wet? Taking this dick deep in your throat, swallowing down my load, giving me everything I want?" he dominantly taunts. "Tell me. Is that what gets you wet? Fucking soaking your tight little cunt?"

"Yes— _yes_ , sir!" you breathe, squirming with pleasure beneath him. "God, yes... worshiping you gets me so fucking wet..."

"Mmmm," Dean hums, thick cock stirring as he smirks down at you, stroking your head like you're his fucking pet. "Such a good little slut. So desperate to please, on your knees, dripping wet. Think I'd like a taste of that. Wanna suck on this big cock again while I suck on your clit?"

Those words off of Dean's lips instantly turn you to a speechless piece of shit.

And you're not sure if you'll ever find your voice again, or ever need to, because then Dean drags you to the nearby bedroom, throws you down onto the bed, lying on your back with your head hanging over the edge, and in a matter of seconds he's got himself naked and is driving his luscious cock into your throat as he leans down over your body, sweat-slick skin pressing against yours everywhere you touch, his rippling abs rubbing against your tits and chiseled chest against your belly, the muscles of his shoulders anchoring your trembling thighs from the front while his hands come around from behind to grab onto your ass as he buries his face in your dripping wet cunt.

You pretty much start coming that very instant. You pretty much don't fucking stop, because how could you even, with this flawless god on top of you giving you everything that anyone could ever fucking want. And _God_ , you realize then that Dean is humming and purring while he works you with his pillow lips and pearly teeth and plunging tongue, and the sheer sound of him and the vibrations that he's causing on your flesh are just... _beyond_ heaven— _so fucking far beyond_...

You scream so loud then that it's as if you're deafened by the sound before it even comes out. Your senses are completely shattered by the time Dean explodes down your throat again, but thankfully despite the dreamlike high you're on, you're just conscious enough to taste him and to thank him as he slides out of your mouth, leaving it breathless, gaping open. You have never felt so empty, so full, all at once. It is so fucking perfect. _He_ is so fucking perfect. And so much more than that. He is everything, and so much more than everything, just... _fuck._

Sprawled in a senseless heap here on your best friend's bed, you know that it will probably take you hours, maybe days or years even, to recover. You blink a few times to see then that, meanwhile, Dean is already back in his jeans, then his shirt, looking fresh and clean like nothing even happened.

"No doubt Donna and everyone else in this house are all gonna come running in. Any second now. See you like this," Dean teases, flinging his leather jacket over his shoulder as he bends down to give your come-soaked lips a final kiss. "You were screaming bloody fucking murder, baby. Guess that's what you get for threatening me."

_Wow._ You wish you'd known then what you know now: no girl should _ever_ threaten Dean that she's going to scream.

_Or maybe every girl should_ , you think as he flashes you a wink and then makes his escape out the window. You're still too blissed out from the high to even be sad as you watch him go. _Maybe everyone should make that threat_. Because, apparently, threatening Dean like that is a damn good way to tempt him into a shameless session of hot, steamy, screaming sex straight out of anyone's wildest dreams.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I know that last gif used to be at the end of Chapter 1, but then I found a better-fitting gif to include at the end of that scene, so I've replaced it there :) This gif belongs here anyway since it's from Bloody Mary, not the pilot! I've been trying to use gifs from the actual corresponding episodes whenever I can. To hold up the integrity of this series. Because, you know, it's a super respectable piece of work, obviously ;P
> 
> Anyway I hope you're enjoying this! If so, please do keep the kudos and comments coming! Much love <3


	6. (S01E06) Someone to Love Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 6 ("Skin")*
> 
> *In which you are Sam's college friend Rebecca Warren*
> 
> A lot of kinky shit can happen when a sick sadistic monster dons the sinfully sexy skin of Dean Winchester. 
> 
> The shapeshifter just wanted someone to love him. But in Dean's skin, he might get a hell of a lot more than that.
> 
> And this might be your one chance to get fucked by the same gorgeous god from the front and the back both at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo this is definitely the darkest, kinkiest chapter yet. And, yes, there's more Wincest. (This fic is just inevitably going in that direction and I can't resist?!?!)
> 
> There's also a scene of the reader getting fucked by Dean from the front and by shapeshifter Dean from the back, so even if you're not a fan of Wincest, this chapter might still be worth reading if you like the sound of that ;)

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 6 ("Skin")***

***In which you are Sam's college friend Rebecca Warren***

 

 

Sam Winchester never told you that his brother is the hottest motherfucker to have ever walked the earth.

Sure, he had mentioned Dean's name a few times back at Stanford. He would describe him as a ladies' man, a shameless flirt, a sex-obsessed dickhead, a dirty-minded bastard. Given the way Sam's hazel eyes would always glimmer when he talked about the other Winchester, almost as if he himself had fallen for the charms of his big brother—which, you realized, was a sick and stupid thing to even think—part of you had often wondered what Dean looked like. But you wouldn't wonder long, because it never really mattered.

Or so you had thought. But now you know firsthand, as he shows up at your doorstep beside Sam, that Dean's looks definitely _do_ matter. _A lot._ Because he is a walking, talking pillar of perfection, every inch of his face as flawless as that statuesque body he's got. His very existence redefines the whole concept of hot.

You try really hard not to drool as Sam then introduces you two, and as you invite the boys inside to talk. Dean is apparently some sort of cop. Or detective, or whatever. You'll learn soon enough that he's not.

And you'll learn a few other things about him, too. Sinful things. Like the taste of his cock. And the way Sam truly feels about him. You'll learn all of that soon, thanks to a dark, kinky encounter with a monster wearing Dean Winchester's skin.

 

***************

 

"I admit it: we lied," the handsome devil confesses when he arrives at your doorstep again the following night, alone this time. "Thought I’d try to explain myself. Sam told me not to come..."

Some part of you, somehow, already knows this isn't really Dean. But every part of you can tell that it's the same delicious body. Those same suckable lips, from which the simple utterance of 'come' has you coming undone.

"But, you know, I thought—what the hell," Dean's lookalike says with a devilish smile, "I have to try."

You invite him inside. Listen with eyes wide as he sits beside you on the living room sofa, starts telling you shit about some supernatural creature called a shapeshifter. For a second there, you could've sworn you saw his ravishing eyes flash from green to silver. You dismiss the notion quickly; the dim lighting is just playing tricks, you figure.

But then he starts sympathizing with the monster. In a way that's much too close for comfort. "It’s funny. I kind of understand him. He's all alone—close to no one," he claims, gaze lowered upon his next words. "All he wants is for someone to love him."

Though your skin at this point is crawling with fear, still the shameful thought crosses your mind that, if this creature wants to be loved... then donning Dean's divinely gorgeous form would be a damn good way to get the job done. _Right here, right now, monster or not, you'd gladly give this sexy bastard all the love he wants._

"He’s like me," the shifter goes on. "You know, everybody needs a little human touch now and then. It’s so hard to be different."

His hand lifts up to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. The electric current that the contact sends coursing throughout your veins is enchanting as fuck, but in spite of that—or more likely because of that—it also fills you with a new level of fear. A fear that's all too serious and all too real, and snaps you to your senses for a second here.

"You should go," you murmur, as your instincts toward self-defense and sanity thankfully take over.

But then he leans in closer, licking his lips before letting them brush against your earlobe in a sinful whisper. "Why should I go, when instead... we could  _come_?"

You force yourself to stand up and act horrified. At least some part of you really is. "You are disgusting," you snap at him, though honestly more disgusted with yourself for the slutty answer that you wish you could've given. "Just—get the hell out of here."

"Rebecca," he addresses you firmly, standing to his own feet as his gruff voice and dark glare keep you rooted to the ground, "just calm down."

"Calm down?" you echo, staring into the depths of his silvery green gaze and struggling not to drown. "What is wrong with you?"

This man, this _thing_ , whatever he may be, is well aware of the effect he has on you, just what the power of his beautiful disguise can do. "What’s wrong with me? What's wrong with you?"

Somehow then, you gain control over your feet, moving toward the phone and threatening to call the police. At least some part of you fully intends to. But some other part of you hopes to feel his grip upon you. Hopes that he'll stop you from what you're trying to do. _And fucking punish you._

He does. Just as you'd hoped for. Lunges toward you and violently tosses the phone to the floor. You scream because you're supposed to, but really the sound that bursts out of you now is more a whorish cry of pleasure as he shoves you down to the floor, straddles your legs and starts tying your hands with the phone cord. He demands that you give him your hands. You're still screaming, moaning. It's because the slut inside you loves the feeling, getting off on every minute of this, not because you're trying to resist. You're not sure whether the shifter can even tell the difference. Not that it would matter if he did. Either way, he barks at you to shut up, and you do just as he says, because in this moment, pinned beneath the full weight of Dean's muscular frame, you want nothing more than to submit and obey.

He doesn't fuck you in the way you so desperately want him to. Mutters something about how you need to be punished for threatening to call the cops; something about how he wouldn't be punishing you if he pounds his cock into your cunt, giving you what you want. No, that wouldn't be the proper punishment. It would be more of a reward. One that a bitch like you doesn't deserve.

Instead he ties you to a chair and beats you up. Hitting so hard as to draw blood. And though you're aching to be fucked, some part of you enjoys this too, because the ruthless savage dominating and abusing you, pretty face smirking wickedly down at you as he does, is just so powerful and perfect and because you're such a screwed up little slut.

When he pulls out a knife, your abject arousal is punctuated by a sharp drop in your stomach, a feeling of absolute fear for your life. But right at that moment, a loud crash sounds from elsewhere in the house. Before you can cry out, the creature holds the blade against your throat and clamps his hand over your mouth. "Shhh," he shushes darkly.

Then he's gone. The SWAT team that has just arrived on the scene doesn't catch him. The sane side of you is obviously grateful and relieved, but because the slutty side of you is so eager to see him again, you feel certain that it won't happen. You're sure that the shifter— _and, along with him, your unfinished dreams of getting brutalized by the beautiful likeness of Dean_ —are good and gone.

You're wrong.

 

***************

 

When you're tied up in the sewer the day after, it's the real Dean who arrives to save your ass. Playing the hero to the villain who'd been wearing his same skin. You tell Dean how you had seen the monster take on your appearance just before it left. Dean unties the ropes that bind you, helps you up, says that Sam was headed to your place—which you know means that he's probably fallen straight into the shifter's trap—so you have to move fast. With Sam's life on the line, no time to waste, you can't afford the luxury of dwelling on how good it had felt to have Dean's bare hands moving urgently against your limbs— _loosening ropes that you wish he had tightened, setting you on fire with desire for him_... you really can't let yourself think of such things. You just bite your tongue, struggling to keep up with Dean's hurried pace as you follow him.

As you finally reach your house, Dean barges in, guns blazing.

"Hey!" he bellows out, a loud alpha-male shout meant to announce his presence and command the shapeshifter's attention.

The evil thing is there, clad in Dean's skin again, on top of Sam, straddling and choking him. One look at this scene would seem to make it clear that he is killing him.

But no; that's not what's happening. You and Dean both see it then. He gawks. You gasp.

Because the shifter's cock— _Dean's_  cock, which this creature just so happens to be borrowing—is buried deep inside his brother's ass.

Both men are still clothed, but they're naked where it matters, shamelessly exposed. Dean just stands there, stunned and stupefied in silence for a second. Soon enough, his hunter's instincts kick back in. He squares his jaw and aims his gun...

"No!" Sam cries out all of a sudden, maneuvering from underneath the monster, clambering desperately to shift position, ending up on top so that his whole torso is covering the creature, protecting him beneath the broad frame of his shoulders, knowing Dean can't shoot when his brother is blocking the target like this. The big cock inside him is lodged in so deep that it stays firmly there throughout Sam's frantic movements. As he leans down over Dean's impostor, Sam's head is turned to face his real brother, standing a few feet away. "Dean, _don't_!"

Your eyes flash toward Dean, whose flawless features are frozen in the most freaked out expression you have ever seen. It's a face that only he could make look sexy. " _Fuck_ , Sam—what the..."

"Dean. _Please_ ," Sam implores as the shifter's hips roll upward then, grinding deeper into him, causing the younger Winchester to moan like a whore. "He's—he's giving me everything I want. Everything you won't."

Dean shuts his eyes and shakes his head. "Sam, don't..."

"Aw, come on, Dean," the shifter's voice, a haunting echo of the velvet voice of Dean, begins taunting sadistically. "Why can't you just let your baby brother have a little fun."

You watch Dean as he raises a hand to his forehead, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes still tightly closed, palm sweeping slowly down his face as the other hand lowers his gun.

"Sammy knows what he wants," the monster teases as he drives his enormous cock harder up into Sam's ass, topping from the bottom as he fucks Dean's brother with dangerously dominant thrusts, breathing in rough, animalistic grunts. "Deep down you've known it all along. You're what he wants. _I'm_ what he wants."

Dean's eyes open again, burning a dark, furious green. "You sick son of a bitch. You ain't me."

"May as well be. At least to Sammy," the creature says as Sam starts reaching under the shirt that the shifter is wearing, shoving the cloth upward to bare the firm, glistening planes of Dean's chest. "Hell, I'm in the same damn skin. I look just like you. Feel... and smell... and taste just like you."

At those words, Sam lets out the sluttiest of whimpers and is suddenly ripping the jacket and shirt violently off of the shifter, hands and mouth moving instantly all over every sweet inch of Dean's smooth, sweaty skin, roaming wildly, ravenously, reverently worshiping him.

It's _ridiculous_ how wet you're getting as you watch this. Worse yet, as you stare at Sam kissing and licking and sucking his way all across that supple neck, that sculpted chest... you're more than just a little jealous.

"And I  _fuck_ just like you," the creature continues. "Fuck him _good_ , Dean. Real good. Just like you would, if only you weren't such a prude."

The real Dean is really, _really_ pissed. "Sammy, you have to stop this. God, just—just _get off_ of him..."

"Oh, he's gonna get off, all right," the shifter chuckles with a smug little grin as Sam's teeth and lips descend onto his nipples, lavishing them with tender licks and loving bites. "We could do this all day. All night."

Dean opens his mouth as if to reply, but not a sound comes out. He just watches, speechless, as Sam nuzzles his snout into one of the shapeshifter's pits, eagerly inhaling his brother's scent, flicking his tongue out to savor the salt and the musk of Dean's sweat, soaking in the smell and the flavor of it, groaning in bliss, high on how much he loves it.

" _Fuck_. Feels so good to be loved like this, Dean," the shifter gushes, basking in the thrill of being so completely worshiped. "Do you have any clue? Just how damn much your little brother loves you? All the kinky shit he wants to do?"

You and Dean both stand in silence as the monster peels Sam's shirt off of his body, every shift of his malicious fingers sinister and slow, throwing the shirt to the floor just before reaching up to take hold of Sam's throat.

Dean visibly fumes and begins moving forward. "You piece of shit, you're fucking choking him to death—"

"Yeah, he likes it. Loves it when I take him to the edge," the shifter says. "You know, before you got here, he was screaming like a slut for me to take him by the throat. To use my rough hands and my rock hard cock— _your_ hands, _your_ cock—to make him fucking choke. God, Dean, you should've heard him beg."

On instinct, without thinking, you've followed Dean, the few steps that he's taken closer toward this twisted scene.

"Just look at that cute little face. Ain't that the sweetest thing you've ever seen?" the creature taunts as he turns Sam's head roughly sideways, giving you and Dean a view of his blissfully blushing cheek. "Tell me, Dean, has your precious bitch of a brother ever looked happier?"

Dean is shaking his head, which definitely isn't intended to answer the question. But no is the answer; you both know it well. He won't give this beast that satisfaction, though. "Go to hell."

The monster takes the answer that he knows should've been given. "Nah, I'm good right here. Taking Sam to fucking heaven."

The elder Winchester's fingers are twitching where he's still gripping his gun, chest visibly heaving.

And then something—you're not sure what, but probably your inner slut—compels you to step in all of a sudden. "Dean. Just let it happen," you whisper to him. "Just give in."

His emerald eyes turn to you then as you reach out to touch him, pressing your hand to his cheek, palm tingling from the heat of his skin, then dropping to the slightly damp cloth of the shirt that you wish weren't covering his chest. Then shifting lower, inch by inch.

"Sam wants it. And judging from... _this_..." you sigh as your hand finally reaches the stiff, massive swell of his denim-sheathed dick, "you don't want to stop watching."

You're practically coming now just from the feel of Dean's cock through his jeans and the low, breathy moan that escapes from his throat as you begin to cradle and caress the luscious bulge. You cannot wait to worship this dick. "Damn, Dean, you're as hard as Sam is," you shamelessly tell him. "And so fucking _big_."

Dean moans out again, _loud_ , and at the sound, no part of you is able to resist claiming his gasping lips in a passionate kiss. He lets you do it; you can feel him, taste him, beginning to give into this, as your hands set to work at his crotch to release his huge dick.

The shapeshifter lets out a wicked snicker as he watches. "Aw, look at that. Becky's a dirty little slut," he sneers as you drop to your knees before Dean, trembling with desire as you unzip his fly and start tugging his jeans down his muscular thighs, hypnotized by the sight of his raging hard cock when it finally springs free. "You wanna suck that big hard cock? Want Dean to fuck your face? Sammy can tell you how good he tastes. Can't you, Sam."

You turn your head then to see that Sam's lips are now wrapped around the monster's massive dick. Apparently he'd begun blowing him at some point; you had been so focused on Dean for the past minute that you hadn't even noticed.

"Yes," Sam sighs as he briefly pops Dean's meat out of his mouth, blissed out and breathless. "God, Becky, it's the fucking _best_."

"Mmmm, damn right it is," the creature purrs, staring you down with a deviant smirk, watching as you use both hands to wrap tightly around Dean's incredible girth. "So is that what you want? Or you wanna get fucked? Want Dean to ram that big dick deep inside your cunt?"

_Ugh, shit_ —you want both, you want everything Dean can give, _bad_ —your answer to that just comes out as a mad, smutty grunt.

The shifter laughs, grabbing Sam by his long, shaggy hair to slide his lips off of his dick, pulling him upward to plunge that dick right back into the tall Winchester's ass. "Go on, Dean. Give her what she wants. Although I guess you can't do both at once."

You finally tear your eyes off of Dean's lookalike to look up at his true face, knowing you need to gaze upon his jaw-dropping beauty the moment your tongue finally touches the tip of his cock for a taste. His own gaze is fixated on the shapeshifter fucking his brother. But then as you lean closer, his emerald eyes lock on yours, and that look seals your fate as his whore. You moan in utter pleasure as you flatten your tongue hard against his leaking cock head, so that the dewy drop of precome that has gathered there can spread across all of your tastebuds, soaking every single one, both your mouth and your cunt instantly dripping wet. He tastes _so_ fucking good. You feel so fucking blessed.

It feels like you were born to suck this cock. It's all you ever want to do. And yet you need it deep inside your slick, tight pussy, too. But as the shifter has just said, no man—not even a sex god such as Dean Winchester—is capable of doing both at once. Even Dean can't do that.

The shifter goes on, still talking to Dean. "Damn shame you can't. But..." he says as he suddenly pulls out of Sam, "... _we_  can."

You and Dean both turn to face the creature as he stands. With his target exposed like this, Dean lifts his gun, which he has still been holding all this time; Sam quickly sits up to wrap his arms around the shifter's hips, then desperately outstretches one of them to place his palm directly on the monster's heart. Dean wouldn't dare take the shot if it would blow his brother's hand apart.

"You gonna shoot? That really what you want?" the monster taunts. "Come on, Dean. How many chances are you gonna get to fuck a girl's face while you watch your spitting image fuck her cunt. Me wearing the same skin, this mighty fine meatsuit you've got, the two of us pounding this bitch from the back and the front."

At this point, you've resumed licking and sucking all over Dean's cock, and at those words from the shifter, you can feel and taste a juicy gush of precome oozing thick and sweet onto your tongue, showing just how much he loves the sound of that, and _God, that is so fucking hot._

The creature snarls; you can feel his dark, silvery stare burning into your soaking wet cunt. "Bet that's what Becky wants. Isn't it, you kinky fucking slut."

With Dean's delicious meat filling your mouth, his free hand gripping your hair now, you keep your face firmly in place but shift your eyes toward the monster, bobbing your head up and down in a desperate nod.

"Yeah, look at that," he snickers. "Think you better drop that gun, Dean. Know you wanna use both hands to grab this bitch's head and fuck it hard just like she needs."

For a split second, you can tell that Dean is trying to resist—his hand twitches, his breath hitches...

And _fuck it, you really can't take this_. Moving as if with a mind of its own, one of your hands lifts up and grabs the gun, yanking it suddenly out of his fist. His grip on it had already weakened, and he was not at all expecting this, so it doesn't take much for you to free it from his grip. The hunk of metal clatters loudly to the floor.

Dean's eyes go wide. Nobody takes his toys away from him like this. _No one._ Definitely not a dirty cockslut. A dick-sucking whore. A worthless, desperate little bitch.

Oh, yes. He is fucking _pissed_. 

And you are so fucking ready to get punished.

Punishment—the best, most pleasurable, fucking _perfect_ form of punishment—is exactly what you get. Nonstop for the next minute, Dean Winchester fucking fucks your fucking face, so fucking hard that you fear it might break, and the feeling and the fear that fill you up are so much more than you can take, but you know that you will take it, all of it, whatever Dean will give, and fucking love it, every fucking second of it. Ever since you had your first taste of his perfect dick, worshiping him like this is the only way that you know how to live.

And when the monster wearing Dean's skin finally joins in, stripping off your clothes so he can fuck your tight wet cunt, slamming you ruthlessly from behind in rhythm with the thrusts down your throat as Dean ravages you from the front, it's just... it's just the most mouthwatering, mind-blowing, magically earth-shattering gift.

For the most part, you've lost your grip on your senses, but still you can hear the shifter's dirty words. He's been talking dirty to you, filthy dirty, every word from his mouth more degrading than the last. And you love it. But he hasn't forgotten about Dean's brother, his other little bitch. "You know what to do, Sammy. Don't even have to ask. Yeah, that's it, bitch. Lick my ass."

The real Dean releases a deep groan, at that, and you wish you could watch along with him, because what you're imagining happening now behind you is so, _so_ goddamn hot. Sam hungrily burying his whole face between shifter Dean's sweaty cheeks as that monster cock pounds hard into your pussy, the creature reaching one of his hands back to pull Sam's head deeper into his crack, using the other hand to grab and grope and then to spank your ass, all while the true Dean towers over you and fucks your face until it fucking breaks in half. Every inch of you quivers in pleasure as this perfect god penetrates you from your cunt to your throat, dominating you from both ends in the dirtiest, most delicious fucking spit-roast. It's more than you can take. But you need so much more. It's beyond anything you've ever felt, or even dreamed that you could ever feel before.

The shifter has what seems like a truly endless supply of dirty talk. He keeps up a constant stream of it while he keeps on plowing your cunt with his powerful cock. "Mmmn, just like that, Sammy. Get your filthy tongue deep in that hole while I'm fucking this whore. God, bet you wish you could see how she's taking this big dick so deep, dripping wet while Dean feeds her with every sweet inch of his meat."

_Fuck yes. So big. So deep. So wet. So sweet._

"Think this desperate slut is ready for us, Dean? Ready to get filled from both ends with your sweet fucking cream?"

_God, so fucking ready._

The real Dean hasn't been doing much talking, but now he speaks up. "Ugh, _fuck_ , I'm—yeah, I'm gonna fucking come."

"Yeah, shoot all that hot fucking come down her throat, Dean. Want me to come in her ass or her cunt?"

"Ass," he answers without hesitation. "She wants it in her cunt. Dirty bitch doesn't deserve that. Make her take it in the ass."

"Fuck, yeeeeah..." the monster grunts as he whips his dick out of your cunt and instantly plunges it into your tight little asshole. It hurts so fucking bad, so damn good, tearing you in half as it makes you whole.

Dean leans over you and moves his right hand off of your head to reach down toward your ass, dealing one of your bouncing cheeks a sharp slap. "Filthy fucking slut. You like that?" he devilishly asks.

You moan a muffled yes into his hot sweaty crotch as he pulls your skull in further down on his cock, and as you feel his palm come down again against your skin, the exquisite pain doubling then as the creature joins in, blessing your flesh with the most brutal sting.

"Fuck that ass till you break it," he urges the monster behind you. "Mmmm, God, I'm gonna come so fucking hard. Yeah, we both are. Son of a— _ugh_ , shit, that's it. Nasty bitch, fucking _take it_..."

All three of you—and, though you can't see from here, surely Sammy too—fucking _explode_ in the same exact instant. Dean Winchester's come floods your mouth as it fills up your ass and you know that it's everything you'll ever want. Soaking you up from the back and the front, and the taste and the feeling send shockwaves through your aching cunt. You would do literally _anything_ for Dean's come. Thick and hot, sweet and gooey and creamy as fuck. Absolute heaven bursting straight out of his perfect fucking cock. You savor and swallow every precious drop. When he finally slips out of your mouth, your thirsty lips start pressing worshipful kisses all over his thick, throbbing dick; it's the least you can do to thank him for the fucking incredible gift.

And the shifter has plans for the come that's oozing from your crack. "Go ahead, Sam. Suck all that sweet come dripping out of her slutty ass." 

_Oh, fuck_ —Sam's tongue doesn't hesitate for so much as a fraction of a second. It digs in deep. Feels so fucking _desperate_.

The real Dean bends down over your body to grab both of your cheeks in his big hands, squeezing them together, pulling them apart, then smacking them _hard_.

He doesn't directly take part in what's happening with Sam, though. The shapeshifter handles all that. "Do your part, sweetheart. Make that gaping hole fucking squirt," the monster commands. "Squeeze that hot come out right into his mouth. Yeah, that's it, bitch. Little Sammy fucking loves it."

_Yeah, that's achingly obvious_ , you think as Sam's tongue fucking invades your hole, cleaning out every drop of Dean's juices clinging onto your inner walls. It's not as if you can blame him. You're clearly not the only one who would do anything for Dean Winchester's come.

Once that's done, you and Sam are both reduced to senseless messes, used up whores sprawled on the floor.

"You know I'm still gonna kill you before the day's over," Dean tells the shifter.

You can practically hear the sad smile on the monster's face as he replies. "I know. But hey—at least I'll die pretty. Loved. Worshiped, even. It's damn nice to be you, Dean."

The creature starts putting his clothes back on.

"Yeah, it is," Dean says as he reaches for his gun. "But you ain't me."

 

***************

 

All he wanted was for someone to love him. He had told you that he needed just a little human touch.

So he put on the skin of a man who is loved. A little too much. Maybe more than just a little too much. He became Dean Winchester, for just a moment. A living, breathing, fucking god of sex. And he was touched, and he was loved. Worshiped, even.

But he wasn't. Not really. Because love runs deeper than skin. Sex is just a way to pretend that it doesn't.

And, just like a shapeshifter, Dean Winchester fucking loves to pretend.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn I loved writing this! Way way (wayward?) too much!! I hope some of you enjoyed reading it :)
> 
> I really really love hearing from readers, so please do feel free to comment if you did <3


	7. (S01E07) Naked Pillow Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 7 ("Hook Man")*
> 
> *In which you are the reverend's daughter Lori Sorensen*
> 
> You have two holy fathers: your father in heaven, and your father the reverend.
> 
> But you only have one Daddy. And once you begin getting dirty with him, you're gonna wish that it would never end.

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 7 ("Hook Man")***

***In which you are the reverend's daughter Lori Sorensen***

 

****

 

The second he walks in, you already feel guilty. Sinful and dirty.  _This is really not the right time for a stranger to strut into church and turn on every cell in your body._ Not after your boyfriend died bloody just last week, not when you're listening to your daddy preach about how he believes the guy died trying to protect you. You're embarrassed enough about the fact that that's not true; in the moments before his death, Rich had been kissing and touching you, in ways you couldn't want him to. You couldn't let yourself want to be touched like that, and you still can't, because you are a reverend's daughter—too innocent to ever dare do anything impure.

Yet all your innocence and purity go straight out the window the instant this gorgeous god comes through the door.

_Who the hell is he_ , you wonder; you've sure as hell never seen him around town before. If you ever had laid eyes on him, you most certainly would've remembered. In the middle of the service, the church door had slammed loudly behind him and the tall guy beside him right after they'd entered. Heads had turned. And many heads, including yours, have been staying in that position and staring at the stunning stranger far too long before turning back toward the front of the church.

The guy's emerald eyes land on yours, and that's when you know you're done for. Beyond done for. Aside from simply being too dangerously hot, he is clearly the type of player who could make a living off the game, getting off on the loveless love he makes, feeding his ego with the endless trail of broken hearts left in his wake, basking in the adoration he receives from every desperate slut whose dignity he takes. Just one look at that perfect face can set anyone on fire with devotion and desire and all manner of emotions that should never be so quickly felt. And he himself is fifty shades of emotionally unavailable, you can tell.

So you look away. Because you can't imagine anything more terrifying than continuing to look at him.

As he and his tall friend take a seat, you let your gaze settle instead on the other guy. He's plenty cute anyway, with dark brown bangs hanging low over his inviting hazel eyes. There's a slight air of danger about him, too, but somehow it doesn't scare you. It must just be rubbing off from the glorious aura of the green-eyed god seated beside him, you assume.

But even when you're looking at the tall one, and even when you turn back toward the front of the room, still nothing can erase the afterimage of perfection that's imprinted in your mind. As the cliche goes, beholding such beauty had been like staring straight into the sun— _supreme, sublime, striking you blind..._

"So, please, let us pray," you hear your father say. "For peace, for guidance..."

_Father, please_ , you pray silently,  _please give me the peace and guidance to keep myself from begging out loud in the middle of this church for that drop-dead beautiful man to please get in my pants. Please stop me from wanting to call him Daddy while he deflowers my innocence, fucks every last shred of dignity out of my body. I know that it's wrong, and I know I should stop, but I can't. Please save me from the slut inside me, Father. Daddy. Please._

 

***************

 

Dean cannot stop thinking about the reverend's daughter. So fucking  _cute_ , so sweet, so pure.  _Damn, the dirty things he'd love to do to her._

He knows she wants it. Bad. But from the moment she'd first looked at him and Sam when they walked into church, to the brief conversation they'd had with her outside following the service, she had made it obvious that she is angling for the taller Winchester. Though it's the big brother who really sets her innocent panties on fire, she is clearly determined to fight it and hide it as hard as she can. And Dean respects that. He loves giving girls the disrespect and degradation that they secretly desire, treating them like shit, once it's been established that he and the chick will both get off on it. It typically doesn't take much to get to that point. 

But until then, Dean is all about respect. He doesn't give a bitch a thing until she begs. So when someone goes for Sam instead of him—as rarely as that happens, one or two times out of ten—Dean is the last person to get in the way of it.

Especially now that it's been established, beyond a shadow of a doubt after that sick shapeshifter incident, that his kid brother is fucking in love with him. Now more than ever, Dean will take any opportunity to set the kid straight. Hell, he'll shove a whole pile of pussy onto Sam's face if that's what it takes.

_And a sorority girl's bedroom has got to be the best damn place to make that happen_ , Dean thinks as he and Sam creep around the side of the house. Maybe he can accidentally push his brother's head into her underwear drawer. Something subtle like that. Or invite a bunch of horny college skanks into the bedroom, yank the guy's pants down and wait for them to pounce. He'll figure something out. The Winchester brothers are supposedly here on business as hunters, searching for clues at the crime scene of Lori's roommate's recent death, but Dean is on a mission that's a hell of a lot more important.

He is briefly distracted by two hot chicks emerging from the house's side entrance. Both he and Sam lean back into some leafy greenery to stay hidden; Dean arches his neck forward a bit once the bitches are beyond hearing distance.

Then he undresses them with his eyes from behind, mouth curving up into a hungry smile. "Dude, sorority girls! Think we'll see a naked pillow fight?"

He hopes that talking like this will help to remind Sam just how non-gay, non-incestuous Dean Winchester really is, so that the kinky bastard will get over his twisted crush and start having sex with women, just like his big brother does. But Sam doesn't even acknowledge the pillow fight comment, let alone reply to it.  _Of course._

Dean rolls his eyes, squeezes in one last look at the sorority sisters, and turns to help his brother climb onto the second-story balcony, then through the window into Lori's room. He crawls in afterward and— _fucking hell_ —ends up falling on top of him. He mutters an apology as he quickly rolls off of his brother's body; Sam just tells him to be quiet.  _Probably because he doesn't want Dean to be sorry when he fucking enjoyed it, the sick piece of shit._

They exchange a few more echoes of "you be quiet" before noticing that they've landed in the reverend's daughter's closet. There's a sheriff just about to leave the crime scene, so they wait for a few seconds, then push the door open right after he exits. 

And all Dean can think is that, goddamnit, he really wishes Sam had just stayed in the fucking closet.

 

***************

 

As you reenter the house and head toward your bedroom, your skin suddenly starts to tingle with that sinful, dirty feeling again.  _That's strange_ , you think—you should only be feeling horror and grief, if anything, after having seen your roommate spread out bloody and dead in her bed just this morning. The second death of someone close to you within the span of just one week. You should feel spooked and sad about that, but instead you just feel kind of...  _horny?_ And guilty about feeling horny. _So messed up._ You have no idea why; it's not as if that strapping stranger from church—Dean, his brother had said his name was—is anywhere nearby.

Approaching the stairs, you release a deep sigh. You had been just about to leave the sorority house with your father, who was understandably eager to get you away from the scene of the murder, when you remembered that you'd left your phone in your room. As you start heading up, you hear voices ahead of you and raise your gaze to see two of your sorority sisters near the top of the stairs. Two cheerleaders with long shiny hair, one blonde and one brunette. You should really know their names, you realize, but the skinny spray-tanned skanks on the cheerleading squad all just sort of blur together in your head, so it's easy to forget.

"I call dibs on the hot one," the brunette says.

"They're both hot," the blonde answers as they reach the top of the stairway and flounce off in the direction of your bedroom.

"You know which one I mean. The golden god," the dark-haired beauty clarifies. "Besides, you've always had a thing for height, so the tall guy is just your type."

The blonde glares at her friend as they arrive at the closed door to your room. "What gives  _you_  the right to decide—"

You softly clear your throat as you come up behind them. "Hey, what... what are you guys doing here?"

The girls' heads swivel in unison, brown eyes and blue blinking dumbly at you.

"Oh. Um—this is your room, isn't it," the blonde murmurs.

You furrow your brows at her, unsure why her voice is lowered to just above a whisper. "Yeah. And a crime scene. There might be cops in there."

The brunette snickers quietly through her nose. "They didn't look like cops. Though if they are, sneaking in through windows and working undercover, that'd be super hot."

The furrow in your brows deepens.  _What the fuck?_

"Look," she explains unapologetically, "we were outside just a minute ago and saw two really cute guys climb in through your bedroom window. No clue what they're doing in there, but we want to jump their bones."

Before you can respond to that, the door swings open.

And there he is.

You can already feel your panties starting to drip.  _Holy mother of unholy shit._

"Well, hello, ladies," he greets the three of you, green gaze flitting quickly between the cheerleaders before fixing firmly on yours, riveting you in place, overcoming your instinct to run away. "You look like you all came to play."

 

***************

 

The rules are simple.

Unlimited pillows. No clothes. Winner gets Dean. Losers go home.

At first, he had tried to set Sam as the prize. But as soon as he'd suggested that, the taller guy had just shot his brother a dark, bitter scowl, then excused himself out the same window through which they'd arrived. 

Part of you had been tempted to follow him out. He's the safe one, after all. The one you can allow yourself to want.

But you don't want what's allowed. You want the sinful, dirty, dangerous one.  _Right here. Right now._

The cheerleaders are obviously thrilled about the prize that's on the line, too. Sure, Sam was pretty cute. But these bitches both want Dean, only Dean, all of Dean. Just like you do. They've already started stripping, bursting into a fit of giddy squeals and giggles as they fling their skimpy clothing all over your bedroom. Not stopping for a minute to think of how obscene it is to be doing this in the middle of a bloody crime scene.

Dean sits his fine ass in the chair across the room and settles in to watch the fight, emerald eyes sparkling, dark and bright. He shrugs out of some of his layers, casting his jacket and flannel to the floor till he's sitting there in a perfectly fitted grey tee shirt. As one of his hands slides toward the buckle of his belt, his pretty head turns and his ravishing eyes once again lock on yours. You're still standing by the door. Though you'd had the presence of mind to shut it tight behind you, you haven't yet moved far from it; the feelings coursing through you are so filthy and so frightening that your feet feel sort of rooted to the floor.

"Wanna play, sweetheart?" Dean asks, luscious lips lifting in a flirty little grin, nodding toward the other two girls who are practically ripping each other apart. "Or did you just come to watch?"

You bite your lip hard and just stare at the mind-boggling perfection of Dean as he starts unbuckling his belt, then unzipping his jeans. You're pretty sure that your whole world will fucking explode at the seams when his fly comes undone, setting free what you already know is the object of your wildest dreams.

And that is exactly what happens. As soon as you lay eyes on Dean's enormous, gorgeous cock, all you can do is gape and gawk. Your eyes bulge wider than they've ever been; your jaw immediately drops. It feels like time just fucking  _stops_.

Despite being so caught up in pounding each other with pillows, the cheerleaders have also noticed that the prize is now exposed.  _How could they not._  An aura of delicious dominance and power filled the whole room from the moment Dean whipped out his perfect cock.

You keep watching in wordless awe as he slides his jeans part of the way down his muscular thighs, taking his thick, throbbing meat by the base as he studies your face, drowning you in his unblinking evergreen eyes. Some part of you processes the ridiculous fact that his gaze has been upon you all this time, even while two naked cheerleaders are mere feet away from him attacking each other in a tangle of long flexible limbs, manicured fingers scraping against smooth tanned skin, perky tits bouncing, two contrasting shades of silky hair getting tugged viciously in every direction. Surely he can see, peripherally. But his eyes are still on you, intently and completely. The arousal written all across your face as you take in the mesmerizing sight of his majestic dick— _that_  is what's causing his massive erection.

In a matter of seconds, the brunette gets the better of the blonde and ends up on top of her, smothering her friend's face beneath a pillow till the poor bimbo is whimpering for breath, thumping her free arm against the bed to signify surrender. The brown-haired cheerleader has  _never_  looked prouder to be a winner. She leaps from the bed, lunging eagerly toward Dean as if she's been starved for days and he is fucking dinner—

"Nuh-uh," Dean masterfully stops her, grabbing a fistful of her long dark hair to keep her lips hovering inches away from his dick. "Not so fast, you greedy little slut. You're gonna have to get through  _her_  first."

He gestures toward the door where you're still standing in silence, and the brunette glowers at you hard enough to shred your skin to pieces. "What, the reverend's daughter? She's a fucking prude. Can't even take her damn clothes off. Just look at her."

"Oh, I've been looking," Dean tells her. "And I'm loving what I'm seeing. So pure... so sweet... but deep, deep down...  _so_  fucking dirty."

The sluttiest of moans escapes your throat. He sees right through you, deeper into your soul than you can even see yourself. He fucking  _knows_.

The cheerleader is downright fuming. "Oh, really? That's what you think? Then let's make her prove it," she spits, starting to get up from her knees in front of him. "Come and fight me for this dick, you fucking bitch."

But Dean's grip keeps her firmly in place, kneeling between his legs. "Don't fucking move till I say you can, whore," he barks down at her. "Did you forget the rules? If she's gonna play, we need her to get naked, just like you."

Pleasure is pulsating through your veins right now because the rasp in Dean's voice when he'd ordered the girl to stay put was the hottest thing you'd ever heard. You already know that you'll obey any order this divinely dominant god could ever give you. Every fucking word.

"So what's it gonna be, baby girl?" he taunts. "You gonna come and fight for this big cock? This what you want?"

Without even knowing what is happening, you can feel your head dipping in a dumbstruck nod. And that sinful, dirty feeling you've been having for a while now is flaring up stronger than ever, fucking dripping from your cunt.

"Yeah, you know it is, bitch," Dean purrs, full lips curving into a cocky smirk. "Go on, then. Strip."

_Daddy wouldn't like this_ , you think for a second as you start peeling off your clothes, every move timid and slow _. Daddy really, really wouldn't like this_... but Daddy isn't in the room with your right now. Neither your father the reverend, nor your father in heaven. Neither of those fathers matter. Neither ever needs to know the sinful shit that happens here, and how you're getting off on every second of it.

There's only one daddy in here. And he fucking loves it.

And his gorgeous green eyes are fucking glowing as he watches every piece of conservative clothing fall off of your skin. You can't imagine anything more heavenly than baring yourself, giving yourself, to him. When you unhook your bra and cast it to the floor, you can see his tongue flick out over his lips at the sight of your tits. And you can hear a guttural growl rumbling from somewhere deep inside him as you slip your thumbs into the top of your panties and slide them slowly down your thighs, bending over slightly as you let them drop to your feet, never once breaking contact with his gleaming eyes.

"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs once you're finally naked before him, and the fact that the living embodiment of beauty has just praised you in that way is beyond anything you've ever dreamed. "Now go grab a pillow, baby girl. And fight this bitch until you've earned my dick. Show me how bad you want it."

A shiver rushes through your bare body; you have never fought anyone in your life. Other than the slut inside yourself. But there has never been a better time than now, no better prize for which to let your inner slut burst free and fight on your behalf. The slut inside you would go to war against the whole damn world for the right to have just one lick of Dean's epic fucking dick.

The poor desperate cheerleader is down before she even knows what hit her. Before  _you_  even know.  _The dirty whore inside you is apparently a fucking warrior_ , you realize as you squash your rival's face beneath a pillow, using your entire body weight to pin her to the floor. She knows better than to struggle any further; she surrenders, and when she comes up for air, one hard stare from Dean is enough to send both her and her blonde friend scurrying out the door.

As the door closes behind them, you stay kneeling on the floor just a few feet away from Dean, where he's still sitting in that chair like it's his own, a fucking throne. You gaze up at him in reverence, wanting nothing more than to devote yourself to him with every fiber of your being. To show him that he is your god, your king.

His scrumptious lips haven't stopped smirking. "Knew you'd win, sweetheart," he says, licking those lips as he slowly pumps one of his fists up and down his huge dick. "Such a good little girl for me. Fought so damn hard."

You watch in wonder as his massive cock grows even harder at those words.

Then he curls one of his dominant fingers, beckoning you to come hither. "Now crawl that pretty ass over here, princess. Come get your reward."

_Oh God._  It's so sinful how right it feels to crawl over to him like a dog on all fours. Dean is so damn good at waking up your inner whore.

"Fuck yes, so perfect, baby. Look at that sweet little ass, wagging like a bitch as you crawl over to me," he praises you for what you hadn't even realized you were doing. Apparently your ass had been wagging for him just on instinct. "What would your holy fucking father think of that, huh? What would Daddy say if he could see you like this?"

_Holy shit. So sinful. So dirty._ You love it, and you love the way it makes you feel so fucking guilty.

You murmur the truth into his crotch as you finally crawl up to him, on your knees between his feet, breathless lips inches away from the tip of his massive, delicious meat. "You're my daddy."

Dean growls down at you, bright green gaze darkening as his free hand grabs your head, thick fingers twining in your hair as he pulls you in closer. "Damn fucking straight, baby girl."

Worshipful gaze locked on his, you lean in to wrap your loving lips in a tight, wet, lingering kiss around the leaking tip of his dick. The feel and the smell and the taste, the look on his face and the sounds that he makes, just... everything about this moment is just  _perfect_.

It seems to be perfect for Dean, too, and that's what sends you over the edge, especially after what he utters next. "Mmmn, that's it. Suck on Daddy's big dick."

"Yes, Daddy," you breathe out, the answer muffled as you keep the luscious head of his cock lodged inside your mouth.

You start off slow, using your lips and tongue to savor and to worship every perfect inch of him, with an indulgence reminiscent of your recently lost innocence. No doubt Dean is used to chicks instantly going to town on his dick; it's obvious that he really isn't used to this. It's also obvious that he fucking loves it. Loves the way you inhale his scent so deeply as you press passionate kisses up and down the whole length of his shaft, from the tip to the base, dipping down toward his full, sweaty sack and then taking his cock in your hand so that you can rub it sensuously all over your blissed out face, smacking it softly against your cheek to revel in its weight, then dragging it across your forehead and chin, soaking in the sticky, glistening trail of precome that his meat leaves in its wake.

"I love your cock so much, Daddy," you wholeheartedly say. "Mmmn. Taste so good. This big, beautiful dick is all I ever want."

"Ugh— _fuck_..." he grunts, throwing his gorgeous head back for a second. "So good, baby girl. Love the way you fucking worship Daddy's cock."

"Thank you, Daddy."

Dean's hips begin thrusting upward into your mouth as you continue slobbering all over him. Though he's loving this luxurious worshiping session, you know what he wants next, and the thought of it is so fucking hot that your heart feels like it's set to burst from your chest.

You swirl your tongue in circles around and around the wet tip of his cock. "Will you please fuck my face, Daddy?" you beg as you suck out another precious drop of precome, relishing the taste, sweet and salty and sweaty. "Fuck this perfect cock deep down my throat? Please, Daddy?"

A breathy gasp slips past his plump pink lips. "That what you want, baby? You fucking ready?"

"Yes, Daddy."

" _God_ , yes. Gonna fuck this pretty face so good, princess. So hard," he groans as he starts guiding his meat slowly into the back of your throat. "Take this cock nice and deep, sweetheart. That's it. Be a good little girl for Daddy."

As he drives in deep, you moan around his meat and reach both hands up to grip the smooth skin of his hips—not to resist, but rather to pull your face and his crotch even closer together, till the thatch of hair at the base of his cock is brushing up against your lips.

"Yeah— _shit_..." he hisses once his full length is finally sheathed inside your face, balls deep. "Take it, you dirty fucking bitch."

And then Dean starts fucking your face. Pounding your throat with all the power of his perfect cock. And once he starts, he doesn't fucking stop. You never want him to. You just want to live and die like this, devouring his gorgeous dick as he dominates you, hammering into your throat hard and fast. Time fades and blurs; you've completely lost track of how many seconds, or minutes, have passed. You just need this to last.

"Gonna come, baby girl," you hear him moan, and those words from his lips fucking make your toes curl. "Gonna come so hard in this sweet fucking mouth. You want Daddy's come? Gonna drink it all down?"

Your mouth and skull completely under his control, you can't quite reply with a nod or with words, so you answer him with your wide open eyes.  _Yes, Daddy. Every drop of your sweet fucking come. Of course._

He bites his lip and briefly shuts his eyes before staring down at you again. "Such a good little whore."

Your vocal cords send vibrations from the depths of your throat to the base of his cock as you groan around him in sheer pleasure.

"Ohhh  _fuck_ , yes—take it all, baby girl," he sighs just before his thick, hot come begins pouring deep down your throat. "It's all yours. All yours."

Somewhere in the throes of guzzling Dean's delicious come, your senses come completely undone and you're not even sure what happens after that. You're still conscious through all of it, awake to cherish every moment, and you know that you'll always remember just how much you loved it, but you were riding so high on some other plane of ecstasy that it's almost as if it never happened. Some part of you remembers the sensation of his full, thick lips against your throbbing clit; his long, slick tongue inside your soaking slit; the way he said you were the sweetest, purest thing he'd ever tasted. And the way that he then fucked you like he meant it, soft and gentle, so much that it hardly even felt like fucking, kissing you so sweetly through it, taking your virginity like it was something precious, something that mattered, something meant to be treasured and respected. You remember shattering to pieces as you realized that this man is so much more than just a sex god. That not all the love he makes is loveless. That he plays the game to fool himself more than anyone else.

You realized more about Dean in that moment than he would ever admit. And fuck if you didn't fall madly in love with him because of it. But that had all been while you were floating on some other dimension, high on the drug of his godly glorious come, of which just one taste had brought you into some sort of extended fucking orgasm. So, really, all of that may as well have never happened.

When you finally come down from the high, you're curled up beside him, gazing deeply into his infinite evergreen eyes, and it feels like you've died.

His perfect lips curl up into the saddest little shadow of a smile. "Can you do something for me, baby?"

You nod and lean in to kiss him. "Anything for you, Daddy."

He kisses you back, but the kiss doesn't last. "Dean. Just Dean," he breathes, clasping your hand. "I, uh... I need you to pretend this never happened. And I need you to trust your instincts again, those instincts you had when you first saw me and my brother. Stay the hell away from me. And go for Sam. Whatever you might think you're feeling now, just—just channel all of that toward him. Do you think you can do that?"

You're really not sure if you can, but you'll be damned before ever denying anything Dean asks. So you nod again.

"Good. I promise it'll be better that way. For everyone."

You don't doubt it for a second. But as he kisses you goodbye before he leaves, a pure little kiss on the cheek, some part of you realizes somehow that Dean's definition of everyone doesn't include himself.

 

***************

 

"So how was it?" Sam asks, leaning against the hood of the Impala, where he's been waiting for his brother. Every second of waiting always hurts like hell, but he will wait for him forever. "Which girl won?"

Dean's flawless face twitches in that way it always does when he's lying. Imperceptible to anyone other than Sam. Like so many things about him. "It was awesome. The, uh—the cheerleader won."

Sam will never get over how beautiful his brother looks when he lies shamelessly through those pearly white teeth. "There were two cheerleaders, Dean."

"Right. Um... you know, the hotter one."

It isn't worth trying to call him out on this. It never is. "Uh-huh," Sam says.

He'll never tell Dean that he looked up then and saw you watching from the window of your bedroom. Just like he'll never tell Dean how and why he resists when you lean into him later that night for a kiss, trying to channel your feelings for Dean toward Sam, the way Daddy had asked. And just like Dean will never tell Sam what he's really thinking when he's sitting in Baby the following day, after they've saved you, watching in the sideview mirror as his little brother bids you goodbye forever, the way Dean couldn't bring himself to do, chewing his lip in the front seat while his gaze lingers a moment too long on your face, the real reason why he suggests " _We could stay_ "...

The love between the Winchester brothers is built on all the secrets they keep from each other. But even more so on the lies they tell themselves. Every lie an empty sacrifice, an already broken promise. 

You were part of that lie, part of that promise, for a moment. A sinful, dirty, dangerous moment that almost turned into something sweet and pure, into a love that never was. 

But the moment couldn't last. Because nothing with Dean Winchester ever does.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't expected this scene to get so soft and sweet at the end, but this fic just keeps taking itself in all kinds of surprising directions :) 
> 
> And this was the first scene I've ever written with a daddy kink! That usually isn't my thing, but as it turns out, Dean can turn me on to anything :P
> 
> Anyway, I hope you're all enjoying this fic! What have been your favorite parts so far?? I love hearing from you guys and it keeps me inspired to write more so please don't be shy <3


	8. (S01E08) This Shower Is Awesome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 8 ("Bugs")*
> 
> *In which you are the realtor Lynda Bloome*
> 
> You make the fatal mistake of assuming that the gorgeous god and the tall guy beside him are gay.
> 
> Now the gorgeous god is going to fucking set you straight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo those who know SPN well may remember that this character ends up dying, in what just may be the worst possible way. But you can rest assured: there are NO SPIDERS (in fact no references to any bugs at all) in this chapter. And no depictions of death either. I just had to use this character because she's one of the only women in this episode of SPN lol. And it works out because I feel like her calling Dean gay makes a good setup for him to want to fuck her straight ;)
> 
> Also, as a heads up, the smut in this scene is a bit more humiliating and degrading than the other scenes so far. For readers who aren't into that, don't worry — not every scene will be (at least not to this degree). So you can still stick with this fic if you've been enjoying it :)

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 8 ("Bugs")***

***In which you are the realtor Lynda Bloome***

 

 

Oh, wow—now that fine young man is a fucking  _snack_.

Hot enough to give you a spontaneous fucking heart attack, you think as your hungry eyes take in the sight of him. You can't stop staring from afar as he just strolls his pretty ass around the yard.  _There's no way he's not taken_ , you grumble inwardly.  _Or gay. Or both, most likely. The best-looking bastards always are._

Sure enough, you notice then, the stud muffin is here with a big tall motherfucker who is giving off all kinds of signs of  _That fine piece of ass is mine. All mine._  Big Bird would very much like the whole world to know that he is indeed his gay, proud, well-endowed sexual partner.

You're beyond pissed about this. You've been working too long as a realtor without benefiting from any of the dirty perks that you've imagined in this line of work. The hard sell that you've fantasized about so often, corny lines already planned out in your mind, to use on horny men ready to take the hint: "I'd love to show you how solid the marble is here on the kitchen counter" or "What do you say we get a real feel for these sturdy hardwood floors" or "Let's go test out the water pressure in the steam shower. Together."

It hasn't been easy to get away with that, when most of the prospective homeowners you've met have been accompanied by clingy little wives. Or husbands. And none of your potential targets' spouses have ever been as frighteningly tall and intimidating as this one.

Which is a damn shame, because you've never been thirstier for anyone than you are now for that green-eyed Adonis glowing by his side. You couldn't stop staring at him even if you tried. Gay though he may be, you decide that you'll have to get a closer look at that delicious face of his before this barbecue is over. The sex god and his gay lover are some distance away, chatting with Larry Pike and his homely wife Joanie. It's as good a time as any to interrupt, you figure, excusing yourself from your current conversation to strut over toward the most exquisite male specimen you've ever seen in your life.

"Hi," you greet him and his partner with an animated smile as you arrive, "I'm Lynda Bloome, head of sales."  _And I really, really wish that you were straight so you could fuck me off the rails._

Mrs. Pike cracks some stupid joke about what a noisy neighbor you are. And all you can think is that you'd be a hell of a lot noisier if only this stunning son of a bitch would ravage you in all the ways you want him to. Rough and dirty and  _hard_.

"She's kidding, of course," you say on Joanie's behalf, letting out a forced little laugh. "I take it you two are interested in becoming homeowners?"  _Why can't you be interested in bending me over?_

At that, the boys just look uncomfortable. Almost as if they had heard your unspoken words. They hadn't, though, you're sure—as a realtor, you're well-practiced in saying only what you're supposed to say. So they must just be uncomfortable about you knowing that they're gay.

The gorgeous god grimaces.  _He even grimaces pretty, goddamnit._  "Well..."

"Y-yeah, well..." his partner echoes.

Feeling generous, or maybe just not in the mood for bullshit, you chime in to clear the air for them. "Well, let me just say that we accept homeowners of any race, religion, color, or..." you pause for a second to gauge the expression on the snack's flawless face, some part of you still holding out hope that maybe you'd guessed wrong, about him swinging that way, but that hope doesn't last very long, "...sexual orientation."

The stunner chuckles, and _fuck, no chuckle should ever be allowed to sound so sexual_. "Right. Um... I'm gonna go talk to Larry," he announces, turning toward his towering companion. "Okay, honey?"

That term of endearment, followed by the playful smack that he lands on the tall man's ass before he walks away, should be all the proof you need that he is definitely gay.

But it's not. Because just as he turns to leave, subtly shaking his pretty head, you glimpse a dark alpha-male glimmer in his gaze. He is fucking pissed at you for what you said. 

And that's all it takes for you to know without a doubt that he is oh so fucking straight. 

 

***************

 

What a fucking  _bitch_.

That's all that Dean can think as he continues making his way through this stupid barbecue.  _Stuck up realtor bitch with her crisp suit and uptight updo._ You weren't the only one who met the Winchesters today and made the dumb assumption that they're gay. But you're the one that Dean is going to set straight.

Before he and Sam leave the backyard, he tracks you down. You aren't hard to find. He comes up toward you from behind; you didn't even see him coming. But the thought is on his mind that you're sure as hell gonna see him come tonight.

Dean doesn't even crack his usual flirtatious smirk when you finally finish your current chat—another cheery sales pitch for the state-of-the-art steam shower—turning your head and making eye contact, your lips parted in an exhilarated gasp. He keeps the expression on his face as straight as he is. Wants you to fucking know that he is pissed.

"So tell me," he demands. "What's the best, biggest house up for sale on this block?"

_God_ , you think,  _it's so obvious that this man has the best, biggest cock._ You know just which house in the Oasis Plains development is most built to impress, so you immediately give him the address. Enthralled by that rough edge in his raspy voice, you'll tell him whatever he wants, do whatever he says. 

His green eyes gleam dangerously. "All right, then. Tonight—let's say ten," he says it with the confidence of someone who has never faced rejection.  _Rightly so, when every inch of him is oozing pure perfection._  "Be ready for me to test the water pressure in the steam shower. And if you're lucky, maybe I'll let you test out my sexual fucking orientation."

_Fuck_ ,  _you’ve never wanted so badly to be lucky_. As he starts walking away, though, you realize that you’re not really sure how he plans to get through the door. "Do you need... need me to give you a key?"

Dean smirks as if you've asked the world’s stupidest question. "Oh, this won't be my first break-and-enter, honey," he tells you devilishly. "Breaking in is half the fun."

"What's the other half?"

He's already heading off, which offers you a damn good view of his divine ass. "A desperate little cockslut like you shouldn't have to ask."

_Holy shit_ —there’s that rough edge in his voice again, and it makes the whore inside you groan and gasp. Hoping that the other half of fun will be him breaking you in half.

  
  
***************

 

As his baby bro drives Baby down the calm suburban road, Dean checks the numbers on the houses, though he won't need an address to recognize the best and biggest when he sees it. 

_There it is._  "Ohh, hey. Pull over here."

The Impala swerves into the empty driveway. Dean won't admit aloud the way he loves when Sam submissively obeys his orders.

"What are we doing here?" the kid stupidly asks.

"It's too late to talk to anybody else," Dean answers, already out of the car. It's half past ten; he knows you will wait up as long as it takes, so he couldn't care less that he's late.  _But if that skank was dumb enough to start the shower in advance, then the hot water might be running low_ , he thinks—and lukewarm showers are surprisingly high on the long list of shit that Dean Winchester hates.

What's not surprising is the look on Sam's face. "We're gonna squat in an empty house?" Of course he has to act as if this is some sin, as if he doesn't know that shady crime is what their wayward life is all about.

"I wanna try the steam shower. Come on," Dean urges him, repeating the command when Sammy hesitates. "Come on!"  
  
Like the good little bitch he is, Sam submits and pulls the car into the garage. And as Dean closes the garage door, he just prays—knowing it's a useless prayer, so he's not sure why he bothers—that his brother isn't getting sick ideas about them trying out the steam shower together. 

 

***************

 

_Where the hell is he_ , you desperately wonder as rivulets of steaming water trickle down your back. You haven't started the steam function yet—you'll wait for him to get started on that—but you've been showering down under hot running water to soap yourself up nice and clean right before you get dirty with Dean. There's no clock in this bathroom, so you're not sure just how late he really is, but hungry as you are for him, it feels like fucking ages.  _Where the fuck is that fine fucking snack._

Then just when you start to fear that he's standing you up, as some cruel prank for the emasculating insult that you'd dealt... that's when you know he's here. His godly aura is so strong that this very instant, from this distance, before you can see him, before he even enters the room, his presence in this house is powerful enough to be felt. Hotter than all the water streaming down your body. Hot enough to fucking melt.

And when Dean's striking silhouette finally appears, a shadow backlit by the dim glow from the hallway as he strides up toward the bathroom door, you have no clue how you manage not to liquefy into a goddamn puddle on the floor.

He enters the shower then, a stark naked hunk of manly muscle sheathed in sun-kissed skin, and he is clearly not about to waste a second. "On your fucking knees, whore."

Your bare back is pressed against a slippery pane of glass; with a vulgar moan, you instantly slide down, sinking into a position of subservience before him as he closes in, taking your quivering chin in a firm, forceful grasp.

Dean's gorgeous green eyes are on fucking  _fire_. You need that fire to devour you completely. And when he speaks... his voice is utter power, raw and pure, reducing you to fifty shades of slutty. "Did I say you could get started without me? Waste all this hot water on your worthless body?"

_Holy fuuuuuck, it should not feel so good to be degraded so damn dirty_. You reply in a whimper, letting yourself indulge in a kink that you've had for as long as you can remember. The dominant figure towering above you just brings the baby girl out of you. "No, Daddy."

A low growl rumbles from his husky throat, and his grip on your chin tightens dangerously. "Nuh-uh. You don't get to call me Daddy. Piece of shit like you doesn't deserve to call me Daddy."

_Shit_ —he knows exactly how to torture you, to put you through the most pleasurable punishment, and he's doing it already.

"Wanna remind me what you called me before? Out in the yard? Why don't you say it again, huh?" he taunts, his big hand dropping down to cup your jaw. "I fucking dare you. Let's see just how dumb you really are."

_God, no_... you're definitely not that stupid. You try to shake your head. But Dean's not having that. His hand descends to grip your neck, and then— _oh fuck_ —his other hand comes down against your cheek in a sharp smack. Your mouth drops open in a shocked gasp; shocked not so much by the act, but rather by how wet it makes you get. You're downright dripping, soaking in heat from within as the hot stream of shower water soaks your skin.

"Say it, slut," he commands, choking you harder as he wraps his other fist around his massive dick, hypnotizing you with each masterful movement of his hands. "Say it. So that I can use this big straight cock to shut you the fuck up."

This is so twisted—you know that you're damned if you do, damned if you don't. That's what Dean wants. And it's what  _you_ want, judging from the wet heat that keeps slicking up your cunt.

So you obey. Squeezing words out through your strangled throat, struggling to say just what he told you to say. "I— _ugh_ , I said y-you're... you're gay."

That feral growl rumbles from deep inside him again. "Damn straight, you stupid skank," he sneers, bringing the head of his cock closer to your mouth, a drop of precome oozing out and mingling with the running water as it hits your tongue, making you groan in pleasure at the taste. "And now you're gonna pay. Now we're gonna see how much dick your pathetic throat can take."

Dean doesn't hesitate to start making you pay. In one swift thrust, he plunges his enormous length balls deep into your face, stretching your jaw so hard you're sure it will break. He keeps it buried there for a couple of seconds before he begins hammering into your mouth at a ruthless pace, balls slapping up against your lips with each vigorous jerk of his hips. His grip has left your throat so that he can tug at your hair with both hands, thick fingers enlaced in the wet mess of tangled strands, holding your skull in place as the back of it pounds repeatedly against the foggy glass. Just when you fear the glass might crack, he pulls out, with a loud grunt as he suddenly releases his grasp on your hair, staring down with contempt at the sight of you shuddering and gasping for air.

"What a fucking  _bitch_ ," he sneers. Then he puckers his perfect lips, aims at your forehead, and spits. 

_And God, you love it._ Which makes you realize he was right to say that you're a piece of shit.

"Just looking at you makes me sick," Dean scoffs, stroking himself with his powerful fist, using the thumb of his other hand to smear his spit into your forehead, eyes sparkling darkly as he takes in just how much you love it. "You like the way I fucked your face with this big dick? Then fucking spit on it? Shut you up real good, huh. Filthy slut. You like that? Does sucking my cock while I treat you like shit get you soaking wet?"

You eagerly suck on his spit-coated thumb as he pushes it past your lips, forcing you to suck it as you answer him. "Y-yes."

Without warning, he slaps your face a few times again. "Yeah, that's what I fucking thought. Is it hot enough in here yet?"

Breathless as you keep on sucking his thumb, you watch as Dean turns towards the shower controls, switching off the running water and starting the steam function.

"Told you I wanted to test this shit out. This damn steam shower you kept talking about," he says as steam begins to stream into the shower, filling up the glass-cased space with white hot clouds. "You want this big huge cock back in your dirty little mouth?"

Your head bobs in a nod as you suck harder on his thumb, moaning as he pulls it out.

Dean spits down at you again, aiming so well that it lands right on your tongue. "Yeah, well, I don't give a shit what you want. Bend over, slut," he orders, pushing your body down against the solid marble ledge—it's meant for sitting, but it works even better for sex, as you've envisioned in your filthy realtor fantasies all along. "Dare you to call me gay ever again once I'm done fucking your cunt."

_Oh fuck_ —once Dean starts in on that, you wish he would  _never_  be done. He plows into you deep, deeper than any dick has ever gone, then starts pounding like a goddamn battering ram, grabbing a fistful of damp hair to yank your head back as his other hand brutally gropes and spanks your ass. The steam that gathers and condenses slick and hot against your skin mixes in seamlessly with your sweat and with his, as he leans in to bite down where your shoulder meets your neck, taking tender flesh like meat between his teeth, driving you mad with his scent and the heat of his breath, his chiseled abs and chest pressing against your back, muscles grinding hard and firm, sticky and wet against smooth skin, and you're going to start coming any second because every perfect inch of him feels like pure fucking sin.

But right before you do, Dean slides his huge cock out of you—you're sure that he knew just how close you were, and pulled out then on purpose for the sake of torture. A desperate yelp escapes your throat; he snickers cruelly at the sound, then presses the dripping wet head of his dick against your crack, grabbing one of your cheeks with his free hand so that your ass is more exposed, so that his cock can trace a teasing circle right around your hole. On instinct, you push back towards him, groaning as you grind into his hard cock, wanting nothing more.

"Dirty bitch wants it in the ass?" Dean dominantly asks. "Want this big cock in that tight little hole of yours?"

Your body answers for you, practically melting in pleasure at his words.

"Well, you ain't gonna get it, whore," he snaps, suddenly twining one of his hands in your hair again and forcing you back into kneeling position, not caring how your knees painfully scrape and slip against the slick tile floor. "Not after what you said. No way in hell I'm sticking this dick in your ass after that."

_Oh_ —yeah, you should've known. After what you'd so wrongfully assumed about his orientation, of course anal would be out of the question.

"No, you're gonna take this cock and all my come deep in your throat until you choke," he tells you as he drives his dick into your mouth again, throbbing and ready to explode. "Yeah, swallow down this whole damn load. Finally gonna learn. That's it, slut, suck on just how fucking wrong you were."

And you do. And you love it. Love guzzling every single drop. Loving the way it feeds your every need, rich and sweet, thick and hot. Your vision is clouded from all of the steam, but still you can make out the gorgeous face that Dean is making as he fills you up with his delicious fucking cream, his flawless features fixed in an expression sexier than anything you've ever dreamed, pink lips parted breathlessly and eyes shut tight like everything inside of him is bursting at the seams, and  _God, you wish that this would never stop_. 

When it does, and when his pulsating cock finally pulls out, you want nothing more than to take that perfect piece of meat back in your mouth, suck off every lingering drop of his come with your thirsty wet lips, fucking kiss and lick and worship—

"Desperate little bitch," Dean sneers down at you, deigning to grace your cheek with one last stinging smack and your forehead with one final shot of his spit before turning off the steam shower and stepping out. "Now get the fuck out of this house."

_Wow_. He had said it as if he owned the place. And you realize that it's true, as you watch him disappear into the hallway, knowing you'll never see him again, now that he's good and done with you. Done proving just how wrong you were. You know as you watch him go that Dean Winchester does own this house, just as completely as he owns you, your soul and your body, the same way he owns every other whore he's ever fucked, because a damn sex god like that owns whatever he wants. Owns the whole fucking world.

As you step into your own shower once you're back at home—showering again just to reminisce, because it's the closest you'll ever get to Dean, now that he's gone—you fondly think of how you can honestly say that you'd die happy now. Even if this were your last night on earth, you don't doubt it for a moment. Because you've been fucked hard and dirty by the living, breathing god who fucking owns it.

 

***************

 

Dean indulges in a nice, long steam shower the morning after. Because that's what a king like him deserves. Sits on the marble ledge where he'd just fucked that dirty whore senseless the night before. Smirks and licks his lips as he remembers. He's tempted to start stroking his dick, but if he's honest, he's even more tempted to invite you back over...

A loud knock on the bathroom door breaks through his shameless train of thought, and it's followed by his brother's whiney voice.  _Of course._  "You ever coming out of there?"

"What?" Dean huffs.  _Motherfucker should know better than to interrupt his brother's sacred time in the shower._

"Dean. A police call came in on the scanner."

_Ugh. Actual business, then._  If there's anything stronger than the sex god in Dean, it's the heart of a hunter that beats deep inside him, a soldier's heart that's strong enough to save the whole damn godforsaken world. The world that the sex god inside him owns, though he himself would never make that boast. He just may save it someday—though he doesn't know it now, and sure as hell wouldn't believe it, ever. 

He sighs and reluctantly turns off the steam. "Hold on."

"Someone was found dead three blocks from here," Sam tells him. "Come on."

Dean briefly wonders who that might be.  _Hopefully he or she got to experience the pleasure of one of these epic steam showers before biting the dust_ , he thinks. He wraps his damp head in a towel before cracking the bathroom door open, because he knows that the sight of his wet spiky hair would make it harder for Sam not to jump his bones. 

"This shower is awesome," Dean says with a playful smile. It's  _so_ awesome that he's unable to resist gushing about it even though he's well aware of the effect that will have on his brother. He doesn't need to tell Sam that the reason it's so awesome is because it's full of dirty, steamy memories from the night before...

Thankfully for everyone, Sam keeps his raging boner in his pants, just rolls his eyes and walks away. "Come on."

Dean dries off, throws some clothes on and follows Sam out soon enough. Yet even after leaving the shower behind, it's as if the steam of it still lingers like a waking dream upon his skin, reminding him of just how awesome it had been. _Yeah, pretty fucking awesome._

He had thought that he was done with the realtor after one filthy fuck. But damn, he really hopes he'll get to see that kinky little whore again.

Dean knows well that hope in the heart of a Winchester dies all too hard, all too often. Deep down, though, still it dares to flicker as long as it can.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for reading! And kudos and comments! I luv them <3


	9. (S01E09) I Remember the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 9 ("Home")*
> 
> *In which you are Jenny the single mom*
> 
> You finally have a place to call your own. Turns out it's the house that had once been Dean Winchester's home. It's haunted by a poltergeist, and by memories of the fire that took his mother and destroyed his life. 
> 
> Dean is always down to fuck, but this is one place where he's not.
> 
> Or so he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene ends up being sweeter than the others so far, but Dean is still dirty and dominant in certain parts. And for those who only like it dirty, don't worry, many future chapters will definitely continue to get dirtier :P
> 
> Also, please do check the notes at the end :)

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 9 ("Home")***

***In which you are Jenny the single mom***

 

****

 

The stranger standing at your doorstep is more beautiful than anyone has any right to be.

And as gorgeous as he may be on the surface, you can already see that it is more than just skin deep. Every atom in his body, to the core of his bones, every beat of his heart and every fiber of his soul, is so clearly full of unspeakable beauty. Beyond anything you've ever known.

You shouldn't be able to glean so much from just one look. Somehow you do, though. That was all it took. And something tells you now that this green gemstone gaze is the same one you saw on the face of a smiling child, when you were in the basement just the other night, rummaging through the prior owners'—the Winchesters'—family photos. Somehow you already know that this house is his home.

Even if it hadn't been, he would be welcome. Such is the effect he has on you that you would gladly open any door, any damn thing, for him.

He's here with a tall man who seems downright spooked at the sight of you. As if he recognizes your face from a dream or something. It's unsettling, but you're too mesmerized by the other guy to mind.

"Sorry to bother you, ma'am," the green-eyed beauty greets you in a voice as smooth and sweet as fucking honey, "but we're with the Federal—"

"I'm Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean," the tall one cuts in. "We used to live here. You know, we were just driving by, and we were wondering if we could come see the old place."

"Winchester," you echo knowingly. "Yeah, that's so funny. You know, I think I found some of your photos the other night."

Those emerald eyes widen the slightest bit, and they're even more gorgeous like that, big and bright. "You did?"

You nod and smile as you step aside. "Come on in."

 

***************

 

Late that night, you take a minute to reflect on what was definitely the craziest day of your life. From finding out that your house is haunted by a poltergeist, to playing the ultimate damsel in distress and having the Winchesters heroically swoop in to save your ass—twice... it had really been all kinds of crazy. No doubt about that.

But the craziest part is that Dean got through this whole damn job without trying to get in your pants. You're honestly impressed. But, more honestly, you're straight up disappointed. Borderline depressed. You're well aware that you're a total MILF—blessed with facial features that have aged well, and even after two kids you've still got a killer figure, if you may say so yourself. All day you had been shamelessly tempting Dean with your single mom charms, taking every opportunity to stroke his arm, to let your gaze drift down toward his crotch and linger there for far too long. And you're certain that he has noticed. Seemed to be into it, subtly winking and smirking at all the right moments.

But now that the moment is ripe—deepest hour of night, kids upstairs sleeping tight, nice and late—moves aching to be made... Dean isn't taking the bait.  _So what gives? Does he want you to pounce; is his pretty ass just gonna sit there and wait?_  The job is done, the ghosts are gone, and here he is beside you on the sofa, just the two of you alone, looking through his old childhood photos, and you've really got no goddamn clue why your clothes are still on.

A quiet sigh slips through your nose as he flips to the next photo. Part of you hopes that he heard, and that he notices how deeply you're breathing when you then inhale again, luxuriating in his whiskey-leather scent. Thankfully he's not wearing cologne—there's the faintest hint of something clean, some cheap motel soap probably, but the rest of the intoxicating smell filling your senses is all him.  _Pure Dean._ Just the right amount of dirty, and it's making you so fucking thirsty. Rich and rugged and real, lush and lusty, the heady whiff of leather lifted off of his Impala's seat, the fiery tinge of all the liquor that he drinks, the natural musk exuding sweetly from beneath his skin, the salt of the slight sheen of sweat that glistens in the dim living room lighting...

"I like this one," he murmurs with a wistful smile, breaking through your wandering reverie about just how incredible he smells.

You follow his gaze; it's a picture of him, beaming and young, beside a pretty middle-aged blonde. "So that’s your mom?"

Dean dips his head in a slow nod.

"It really is a lovely shot," you say softly. "She's beautiful."

"Yeah, she was," Dean agrees, and his upper lip twitches a bit. If you could see inside his head, you'd know that it's because he's thinking then of how the ladies' man in him should be responding. _This is usually when he would say "and so are you"..._

You can't see in his head. But you're the one who says it now instead. "And so are you."

He blinks, having just heard the words in his own mind, a perfect echo. His own velvet voice comes out quiet and low. "Whoa."

 _Ugh, he is so adorable like this._  "What? As if you didn't know?"

Dean averts his gaze then with a bashful smile, trying not to blush. "Nah, it's just..." he says, voice trailing as he looks back up into your eyes, "...you're stealing my best line."

 _God_ , you get all giddy when Dean gets flirty. You can't wait for him to get dirty. "Oh, I'm sure a charmer like you has plenty of other 'best lines' up your sleeve," you tease, staring at the sparkle of his tongue behind his teeth. "But I'm glad that I beat you to it. You deserve to hear it, Dean. You are  _so_  damn fine."

His upper lip twitches again; you take it as an invitation, dare to inch a little closer to him. 

"Smell like heaven," you tell him, leaning in till the tip of your nose nearly touches the curve above his twitching upper lip. "Mmm. Bet you taste fucking divine..."

So close to him like this, every last cell in your body burns and yearns to seal the kiss... 

But he resists. It's the slightest thing—a gentle touch upon your arm, applying just the faintest pressure to urge you to keep your distance—but  _fuck_ , it seriously stings. 

You pull away, head bowed in shame. "Oh God, I thought... I'm-I'm so sorry, Dean."

"No—please, don't be. Trust me, honey," he assures you instantly, giving your shoulder a soft, soothing squeeze. "Any...  _any_  other place, anywhere but this house, by now I'd be throwing you down and fucking your damn brains out."

 _Oh. Wow._ Your feel your insides clench in a tight spasm, practically coming just hearing those ravishing words from his mouth.

Dean clearly sees the dizzying effect that his dirty talk has on you, and he lets himself enjoy it for a second. But no longer than that. The cocky smirk flickering across his flawless features fades out all too fast. "But this place, it's—it's just..." he whispers, palm falling away from your shoulder, jade gaze dropping to his lap, to the photograph clasped in his trembling hand. "It's too much. I remember it all, every minute, and it's..."

Your maternal urge toward nurture overcomes you then, all of a sudden.  _He is just the most precious fucking thing._  "It's okay, Dean," you comfort him with a warm hand upon his back, trying not to have filthy thoughts about the rippled planes of muscle as they tense up, then relax beneath your grasp. "No matter how real they may feel, they're just memories. It's all in the past."

"Yeah, well, sitting here now, sure as hell doesn't seem like that." He sets the photo down and stares off into empty space, deep anguish written in the shallow lines across his faultless face, chiseled jaw flexing firmly as he grits his teeth. "It all just comes back. I remember the fire... the heat..." 

 _Oh, the heat in here is all just you, Dean_ , you shamelessly think as your other hand moves on instinct, caressing his knee through his jeans...

He doesn't pull away this time, but his head jerks up right then to meet your eyes, breath catching in a stifled gasp. The purity and pain that radiate from his gaze in this moment are enough to stop your hand. "I... I'm real sorry, Jenny. I can't."

Your head bobs in a sad little nod. "I understand," you murmur, summoning all of your self-control to let your hands slide off of him, heaving a deep sigh as you force yourself to stand. Your next request is easier to make from this position, on your own two feet in front of him, some safe distance between the two of you so that you're less vulnerable to his magnetic pull, the magic of his scent, the maddening effect that it has on your heart and your head. "Which is why I know it's probably too much to ask, but can you... can you stay the night, at least? Please? Separate rooms, if you want—you can take the guest bed. Or just stay on this couch."

Dean looks up at you, emeralds unblinking, parted lips framing his perfect pink mouth.

You're gonna die if you keep looking at that stunning face, so you shift your gaze. Stupid enough to shift it... south. "I'll just feel a lot safer tonight in this spooky-ass house if I know there's a..." a lump forms in your throat at the sight of what looks like a lump in his crotch.  _Fuck_. You swallow it down—the lump in your throat, though you're dying to swallow the other one. You finish your sentence, staring hard at his erection as the words fall out. "... a  _big_ — _strong_ —man around."

Dean blinks twice as you say it, one blink for each description of his dick, then holds your gaze for two quick seconds. When he breaks it, it's to lower his head with a shy little laugh. "Sweetheart, you can't..." his eyes close as he pinches the bridge of his nose, as if to hide behind his hand, "...you can't say shit like that to a sucker like me."

There's a subtle hint of gravel in his velvet voice just then, almost a growl, and it makes you wonder just what his expression will be when his eyes reopen and his hand comes down. What version of Dean you will see. 

"Sucker?" you repeat, your own voice dropping to a desperate, dirty whisper. "Sucker for what, Dean?"

Then as Dean's hand falls away from his face, he rises to his feet, standing tall so that he can look down to meet your gaze. And the look he gives you now is unlike anything you've seen from him all night. It's dark and deep and oh, it's fucking  _naughty_. 

"Well, you know," he purrs, green gaze burning like liquid fire into yours, "single mommy with beautiful eyes... banging body..."

Those praises from him make you swoon on the spot. You're no stranger to being called hot.  _But never by a fucking sex god._  Somehow you keep up just enough composure to continue flirting playfully. "You know you really don't need to flatter me..."

"Hmmm," he hums, licking his lip as you feel one of his big hands framing your hip, the other palm brushing your thigh and inching slowly toward your crotch. "Want me to stop?" 

By this point you would've crumbled to the floor if Dean's hands weren't holding you up. The magic of his touch is just too much; your breathing hitches in a needy grunt, and when his hand finally reaches your cunt, soaking already through your pants, and then his fingers press and twist against your clit in some kind of unholy dance and  _holy—ughhhhh_...

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he snickers darkly, leaning in to breathe his filthy words against your neck. "Wet as fuck. You're a sucker too, aren't you? For this  _big_ — _strong_ —fucking cock."

"Oh  _God_..." you groan as Dean thrusts vigorously into you, rubbing his massive bulge against your core, hands having moved so that one is now gripping your ass while the other is splayed at the small of your back, pulling you firmly in toward him so that your spine arches sharply as you instinctively begin grinding your cunt against his dick, head falling backward as you moan like a complete and utter whore.

"Mmm, look at that," he rasps. And then in one swift motion, all of a fucking sudden, your body is pinned beneath him on the floor. The air whips from your lungs on the instant, Dean's sturdy hand behind your head as you descend, the perfect cushion, taking sweet care of your head even as his fingers tangle in your hair and dominate each goddamn strand, and it is such absolute heaven.

So are the words he utters next. His lips and teeth still smashed into your gasping neck, Dean huffs out more delicious dirty talk as his hand slips from the back of your head toward your chest, palm of the other pressed against your sex, talented fingers toying with your pussy in that devilish caress. "Bet I'd be a sucker for these pretty tits you've got. This sweet, wet pussy.  _Fuck_ , honey, I wanna feel you come all over me."

Conscious thought fails you. A slutty stream of filth is all you've got. "Hoooly... ugh, God, holy  _shit_ , Dean, you're— _God_ , you are so fucking hot..."

"Think you can take the heat, you little slut?" he taunts, lifting off of you for a second, straddling you with his knees braced hard against your trembling thighs, devouring you with his dark emerald eyes, smirking as you watch his hands move toward his denim-clad crotch. "This what you want? This big hard cock deep in your dripping cunt?"

" _Fuck_...!" you exclaim, not even ashamed of the way your hips desperately buck, thrashing up toward what you already know must be the world's most  _perfect_  cock.

And when Dean finally pulls it out, it is even  _more_  perfect than you had imagined, somehow. The size, the shape, the shade of pink that you are pretty sure heaven specifically created for his dick.  _No thing on earth has any right to be so perfect._ You are overcome with the need to fuck it, to suck it, to drink every damn thing from it, to please and to serve and to worship...

As you gawk wordlessly at his cock, Dean swiftly pulls his shirt off, and if there's anything that can distract you from his fucking majestic manhood, it's the sight of his statuesque torso towering over you stark naked, glowing in the dim light, glorious and godlike.

You're sure that he expects you to stay on the floor. And if he had commanded it, if you knew that it was what he wanted, you wouldn't hesitate to stay submissively in place. 

But no; you know that Dean won't mind if you shift position to submit to him and service him in other ways. You want to worship him like the beautiful king that he is. With your heart having felt the full depth of devotion and love as a mother, you know just how best to show someone so precious that he is beyond beloved, adored, cherished and treasured. To make him feel truly at home, here in the first home he had ever known, this hell that had once been his heaven, his haven. To soothe and to save him. And you're sure that he will love it. Every minute of it. 

So before Dean can lean back down dominantly over your body, you sit up, reaching to twine one hand in his tousled golden-brown hair, the other clutching onto the sculpted muscles of one of his shoulders, steadying your upper body upright against his, loving gaze locked on his jade green eyes, drowning in all the untapped depths of beauty that you can see hidden so deeply in there. As beautiful as Dean Winchester is, there is so much more beauty deep beneath the pretty surface, indescribable and infinite. And he doesn't even know it. Even if he did, it's not something he'd ever embrace or admit.

You want to show him nonetheless. You want Dean to know, to see himself for everything he is, to be burned by the beautiful fire that blazes so brightly inside of him, even if only for a minute.

It starts with a kiss. Sweet and soft on his full, luscious lips. You sigh in bliss not only from the feel, the taste of him, but more so because you can sense that he isn't about to resist. That he is giving into this. Knows that he needs this and secretly wants this. There's a darkness in Dean that was born to be dominant, but there's also a light in his heart that burns stronger than that, stronger than even the darkest part of him. Stronger than anything. And that light is what needs to be nurtured tonight.

You  _know_  Dean better than you should; you know he thought the only way he could get naked here amidst the haunted shadows of this house would be if he could hide. Behind the shadows in his own soul, all the darkness that's inside. It would have to be dirty and dominant, and quick—besides, that's how he usually does it. And you both would've fucking loved it. For him, it would've been just any other ride. For you, it would've been the best sex of your life.

But that's not what's going to happen tonight. Dean doesn't have to hide. Tonight, here in this house, his home, it is going to start with a kiss just like this, and then your king is going to sit his divine ass down on your couch like it's a goddamn throne. On your knees between his feet, you are going to use your hands and lips and tongue to savor and to worship every perfect inch of him, from head to toe, over and over again, all fucking night. You are going to gaze into his gorgeous eyes as you take his delicious length deep down your throat and suck him dry. And you are going to sit on his godlike cock and fucking fuck him. Looking deep into his heartbreakingly human soul all the while, making fucking love to it, living and dying just to draw out one more breathless moan from his lips, one more sweet blissed out smile, bringing him home with your adoring eyes, not letting him fight it, not letting him hide.  _Really_  fuck him, good and hard and sweet and wet and tight. Fuck him  _right_. Until Dean Winchester finally catches a glimpse of just how beautiful he is inside. Feels the immortal fire in his heart that burns so bright. Until he finally sees the light.

That is what happens tonight.

Once it's done, the final shot of his come deep inside you bursting sweet and hot in the most perfect moment, just as you see his flawless face kissed by the first rays of the rising sun... once it's done, that's when you know Dean's heart is open. For just one fleeting, infinite moment. That the long, hard road that he will lead for all his life, toward learning to love himself, has finally begun.

Dean whispers the most heartbroken  _thank you_  into your lips. Doesn't seal it with a kiss. Because, on the surface, he is so obviously going to pretend that last night never happened. Blinks away the tears before they've fallen. Decides to fuck you rough and hard and dirty then, in every hole just once again, and you let him—hell, you  _beg_  him—the slut inside you wanted that all night besides, and in the light of day now it's okay to let him hide. 

The day has almost fully broken by now, warm and bright. As the lower rim of the sun slides above the horizon, Dean pounds his cock into the back of your throat and then comes in your mouth as you swallow him down, for what you know will be the final time.

"Good  _God_ , sweetheart. Some sucker you are," he growls with a gratified smile, gently stroking your head like a pet as you gulp down his load. This is the kind of sex that he's more used to, you know. "So good. Got me to fuck in the one place I thought I never would."

"Mmmn," you hum as you swipe your hand absentmindedly over your lips, gathering sloppy drops of come and spit. "Hope it was worth it? Definitely for me, but—for you, I mean... hot as that was, it must've made the heat from all your memories here feel... more real."

"Yeah. Real as ever," he says, biting his lip, green eyes haunted and distant for a moment. You can't tell if he's dwelling on what happened here twenty-two years ago, or what went down just this past night. Either way, he forces himself to forget about the fire, the light, returning his mind to the present. "But it was worth it, babe. Because here in this house I hate so much, for just a second... you made me feel at home again. And that's the best damn thing."

You know that little reference to home is the closest Dean will ever come to acknowledging how you had fucked him, made love to his heart till it opened, the light in his soul that you'd shown him. He won't mention it again, to you or to anyone. Definitely not to himself. Ever.

He just keeps everything surface-level. Because of course that always works so well. You gladly take the superficial compliment he gives; any praise from his lips is a reason to live. "And hell, you're hotter than the fire I remember."

 

***************

 

"Thanks for these," he says to you outside later that morning, just before he leaves. The old childhood photos that you've given are the only piece of home he's taking with him.

There's so much that you could say, but none of it would ever be enough.  _Thanks for everything, Dean. Thank you for braving the heat last night, letting me in. I hope you know that you are so much stronger and brighter than all of the fire that haunts you. If only I could, I'd spend every day for the rest of my life reminding you how beautiful you are, from the inside out, the outside in... God knows I want to._

But you know that you can't. Though he will always own some deep part of your heart, you know he isn't yours to belong to. A god of a man like Dean surely has bigger things in store, better things to do than just stay here with you. So much more to move onto. 

You just hope and pray that he will find a true home in his own heart, learn to love himself someday, if only just a little bit, out on the long, hard road that you somehow know lies ahead of him.  _And if he ever does_... then maybe, just maybe, some small part of that sweet miracle just might be thanks to you.

But you're not looking for his gratitude. You're not looking for anything from Dean; he has already given so much to you, and to so many others. So goddamn much more than enough. His only remaining debt is to himself. A debt buried deep beneath worlds of self-hatred, a debt that the darkness in him surely wants to keep hidden forever. A debt of love.

He can no longer deny that debt, now that you've shown him the beautiful fire that burns bright inside him. A fire you hope he will never forget.

"Don't thank me; they're yours," you remind him, smiling down at the Winchester family photos before you gaze for one last time into his precious emerald eyes, the loving look on your face silently conveying the last words of your reply. 

_And so am I._

 

__

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all are enjoying this :) Thank you as always for kudos and comments!!
> 
> Also — I'm thinking of taking requests for this fic... as in ideas for different kinks and things to possibly include in certain scenes. I haven't yet decided if I'll be doing that (in part because I can't promise that I'll be able to take every request), but I'm considering it :) Would you guys have requests, if I did? 
> 
> Let me know if you'd like me to! Much love to all of you <3


	10. (S01E10) The Extra Cookie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 10 ("Asylum")*
> 
> *In which you are Kat, that kickass girl who can handle a shotgun*
> 
> You bump into the Winchesters here in this haunted asylum, and as it turns out, you're a real tough cookie when shit starts getting spooky.
> 
> Just like he told Sam, Dean always gets the extra cookie.
> 
> Cookies and cream ensue, with you riding shotgun in Baby. Shit gets super kinky. And as it turns out, all three of you get lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Road head and Wincest. A lot of the road head is before Sam joins in on the action, so if you're not into Wincest but still want to read about sucking Dean's dick while he's driving, you can go ahead and dive in ;)

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 10 ("Asylum")***

***In which you are Kat, that kickass girl who can handle a shotgun***

 

 

"Dean. When are we gonna talk about it?"

_Shit_ , Dean thinks.  _Really, Sam? In the middle of a haunted asylum? Is this really the time and place to talk about the twisted crap that's been brushed under the rug for a while now and should stay there forever, thank you very much?_

The elder Winchester tries not to get too pissed.  _Maybe Sammy is talking about something else. He fucking better be._ "Talk about what?"

"About the fact that Dad's not here," Sam responds.

_Oh, thank God._ Dean's sure as hell not gonna talk about that either, but it's way better than the sick subject of incest with his brother. Nonetheless, his answer to Sam is the same, on the topic of their father. "Oh, uh, let's see... never."

Sam huffs out one of his signature exasperated sighs. "I'm being serious, man. He sent us here—"

"So am I, Sam. Look, he sent us here, he obviously wants us here. We'll just have to pick up the search later."

"It doesn't matter what he wants."

_Ugh, screw that._  Dean is not about to tolerate that kind of disrespect to Dad. "See—that attitude, right there?" he snaps with a firm glare, shifting gear at the last second to keep things a little lighthearted, since he's not in the mood to get heavy. "That is why I always get the extra cookie."

Sam rattles on about how Dad could be in trouble,  _blah blah fucking blah..._

"I understand that, Sam, but he's given us an order."

"So what, we gotta always follow Dad's orders?"

"Of course we do."

And that's the end of that discussion. Sam may be a rebellious bastard about obeying his father, but no matter how many tantrums he throws, deep down he's an obedient bitch when it comes to his big brother. A thought briefly crosses Dean's mind, which he tries and fails to ignore— _maybe Sam's kinky crush isn't without its perks..._

 

***************

 

You should really be worried about your boyfriend—poor Gavin has gone missing somewhere in the middle of this lunatic asylum, the creepiest damn place you've ever been. 

But you're not. Because you're walking right behind a fucking sex god. So, of course, right now your thoughts are totally preoccupied with visions of his cock.

Gavin got himself into this mess anyway; it was his idea to hit up this asylum.  _So fucking dumb._  You are kind of psyched about it now, though, as it led to you bumping into this Dean dude. The two of you have split up from his tall, hazel-eyed brother and are snooping around hallways, looking for your boyfriend together.

"I got a question for ya," Dean says, and you immediately imagine him asking you if you'd be down for some creepy asylum sex. He ends up asking something else. "You've seen a lot of horror movies, yeah?"

"I... guess so."

"Do me a favor," he orders, already getting you wet with his words.

You have to bite your tongue against the urge to answer— _ohh, like, a sexual favor? Yes, sir._

"Next time you see one? Pay attention," Dean commands, green gaze ablaze and darkly dominant. "When someone says a place is haunted... don't go in!"

As you continue to follow him in silence, you hope the dom in him can hear the unspoken response that you're giving:  _I'm sorry, sir. I know I was a stupid little bitch. I'm ready for my punishment._

Your punishment, as it turns out, is having to go through this whole haunted asylum experience without getting fucked by him. Which is the literal worst thing you can imagine. 

By the time the night is done, you've shown the Winchesters that you know how to handle a shotgun; you've picked up on some super strong dom/sub vibes underlying their brotherly love/hate relationship, and some super odd sexual tension between them; and you've told Gavin that you are so breaking up with him.

All of which means that, when you all finally step outside of the asylum to find that day has broken... by that time, the stage has been set for some hot hardcore sex.

 

***************

 

"You're  _what_?" Gavin gasps.

_Ugh._  The desperate whimper in his voice makes you feel even better about your decision to dump his ass. He's been nothing but a wuss all goddamn day, and you're done putting up with his weak sissy crap. "I'm breaking up with you. Did you not hear me back there—"

"Yeah, but Kat, I—I thought that was just..."

"Sorry to burst your bubble, stupid, but I don't say shit like that unless I mean it," you tell him. "Have fun finding a girl who wants to hook up with a weak little bitch. They're out there, I promise."

You're just not one of them. And now he knows it. 

You leave Gavin with a mercy kiss, then strut off toward the Winchesters' car, not even bothering to look back as your ex crawls into his. You've had a secret sassy bitchy streak for as long as you can remember, but damn, these brothers— _big brother in particular, of course_ —have brought it out of you today stronger than ever.

Approaching the shiny black sexy-as-fuck Impala, you catch the tail end of their current conversation.

"No," Dean tells his brother decisively. "I'm not really in the caring and sharing kinda mood. I just wanna get some sleep."

Sam sighs through his nose. "I really think we need to talk about it, Dean. And not just what I said in there—the other shit, too. Don't act like you don't know what I mean. You can't just keep..."

His voice trails off as you arrive, and the brothers turn to look at you in unison, two pairs of pretty-colored eyes.

You've only got eyes for one of them, though. "Hey, Dean," you greet him, batting your own eyes provocatively. "Mind if I catch a ride home with you guys?"

His lips are already parted before he answers, giving you a sweet view of his luscious pink mouth. "Uh... yeah, sure thing, but what about—"

"Gavin? Well, after what happened today—as we all got to see, turns out he's a real pussy," you state bluntly. "I'm more into dick."

Sam practically chokes on his own spit.

Dean blinks, eyes widening slightly for a second at your shamelessly straightforward flirtation. But, being a sex god, he's a bit better equipped to handle it. "So you just..."

You take the liberty of finishing his sentence. "Dumped his ass."

"Nice," Dean replies, flicking his sinful tongue across his smiling lips. "A badass beauty like yourself deserves better, but I'm sure you knew that."

"Hell yeah," you affirm, playfully mirroring his smirk. "Better... badder...  _bigger_. And hotter, kinda like this super sexy car."

"Baby here? Yeah, she gets that a lot," Dean responds, beaming proudly as you run an admiring hand along the roof of the Impala. "And she looks even better when I'm driving inside her. Wanna ride shotgun, sweetheart?"

Sam clears his throat. "Dean—"

"Don't be a bitch about it, Sammy. Kat was a real tough cookie back in there, brave enough to handle a damn shotgun. Least we can do is let her ride shotgun with us," he snaps at his brother, emerald gaze on fire when it returns to yours. "If that's what she wants."

You bite your lip and shift your hand from the surface of the car to the bulge of his jacket-clad bicep, caressing his arm. "How could I not," you purr, loving the way his body feels beneath your fingers, even through all these layers, big and hard and  _hot_ , "...wanna see what it's like to ride beside a fucking sex god."

Dean's gorgeous eyes go wide again, but before he can ravage you this very instant, his kid brother cuts in.

"Great," Sam mutters, "so now I'm supposed to just sit in the back while you two..."

"Extra cookie, Sammy. Told you I always get it. And right now, guess what?" Dean briefly breaks away from your gaze to look over at his brother, apparently referring to some conversation that you hadn't heard. " _She's_  the extra cookie."

You glance at Sam then, watching him roll his eyes as a final attempt at resistance before crawling in the backseat.

Once he closes the car door, your gaze returns to the sex god who's towering over you so beautifully. "I've got no clue what that means, but I'll be whatever you want me to be. And Dean..." you murmur as you lean in closer to him, breathing in his musky manly scent, the stuff of fucking dreams... "This cookie wants to be filled up with cream."

A dirty growl rumbles from somewhere deep inside of Dean as he reaches up to cup your cheek, his other hand having dropped down and slid behind your hips to grab your ass. "Babe, can I just say—the way you're shooting so straight, gunning hard for what you want... it's fucking  _hot_ ," he snarls, dipping his head to brush his scrumptious lips against your neck. "Usually I'm the first one to whip out the dirty talk."

The huge bulge in his jeans is grinding into you now, and it's everything you'll ever want. "Just wait till I get in your pants and whip out your big cock."

Neither of you wants to wait another second. But then both of your heads turn at the blare of Baby's horn; Sam has leaned over the front seat to sound the honk.

After opening the passenger door for you— _apparently chivalry isn't dead, even right before a hot session of filthy dirty road head_ —Dean slides into the driver's seat, shooting you a gorgeous green wink as he settles in. "So, where's home?"

You give him your address. Though you never want your ride with him to end, you wouldn't want to waste his time—no doubt a guy like Dean has places to be, things to do, chicks to screw other than you.

He nods, shoving the keys in the ignition, then reaching to cradle your head and pull you in closer to him, powerful fingers entwined in your hair. "And tell me, baby—what's the  _longest_...  _hardest_ way to get there?"

_Oh_ , you think, giddy from the sight and sound and feel of him, already soaking at the thought of what you are about to do _—so he's actually happy to waste time with you. What a dream come fucking true._

You answer his question. He starts the engine. And as Baby stirs to life beneath his feet, roaring and purring the way you know she only ever does for Dean, you lean down into position to fucking devour him.

Eager fingers attack the buckle of his belt, and the slut inside you can't resist using both hands and teeth to unbutton his jeans, loving how his grip on your head tightens dangerously as you work your way toward his delicious meat. When his hand suddenly leaves your head, the other steady on the steering wheel, you let out a needy little squeal—which quickly fades into a sigh of pleasure as you feel his palm sliding down your arched back, toward your upraised ass, giving one of your cheeks a hard squeeze before coming down on it with a sharp smack.

The smack lands at the same exact instant that you've finally set his cock free from his boxer briefs, and you're honestly not sure what makes you moan louder: the sight and the scent of Dean Winchester's big, beautiful,  _perfect_ dick, or the feel of his hand on your ass as he dominantly dishes out the most pleasurable, painful,  _perfect_  form of punishment.

Lucky for you, you don't have to choose. You can get off on both. And you do.

From your first taste of the dewy bead of precome leaking from the tip—to the feel of that sweet juicy tip bumping into the back of your throat as you take his length deep past your overstretched lips, bobbing your head desperately up and down on his heavenly dick, sloshing around him in thirsty suctioning motions till your whole face has become a sloppy mess all slicked up with his arousal and your spit—to the sensation of the engine vibrating vigorously beneath his feet, the feeling thrumming through the leather seat, adding to the heat, getting him even bigger and harder and you even more soaking wet... everything about giving Dean road head is just beyond perfect.

Soon enough, your own jeans and panties have come off—lost as you are in Dean's crotch, you have no idea who did that, you or him or even Sam, and it seriously couldn't matter less—all you know is that it's the fucking  _best_ , because then you can feel Dean's big hand rough and ruthless against your bare skin, spanking you  _hard_  over and over again as your mouth descends deeper and deeper down on him.

You can barely even breathe at this point, but with your face getting fucked so deliciously full of him, you can't see why you should ever need to again. 

One of your own hands has slid down to your throbbing clit, moving on instinct, and given how turned on you already are, you're pretty sure that you start coming the moment you touch it, feeling your climax squirting and dripping onto the seat, and you're so worked up that you're ready,  _aching_  really, for another mind-blowing orgasm before this one is even done.

Dean has been talking dirty this whole damn time, and the sound of his velvety smooth viciously savage voice is just sublime, as if you need another reason to straight up explode and  _die_.

"Yeah, suck on that big cock, sweetheart. Good and hard."  _Smack._  "Ugh, what a naughty little slut. You like that? Fucking love when Daddy spanks your pretty ass?"  _Smack. Smack._ "Shit, look at you, baby girl. Slobbering all over this dick. Makes your pussy drip, doesn't it."  _Smack._  "Mmmn, yeah, take it deep. Wanna see you worship this cock while your sweet ass turns nice and red for me. Just like that, you filthy bitch. You Daddy's dirty little princess?"  _Smack. Smack. Smack._ " _Fuck_  yes."

Oh fuck, he's  _close_ —he's throbbing harder in your throat and you cannot fucking wait to drink his load...

As Dean bucks his hips to pound his dick even more violently into your mouth, you swallow him down, letting every inch of your throat close in tighter around him, squeeze and contract, and you watch in a euphoric haze as he loses control with a loud groan and throws his head back, eyes not even caring that they've left the road.

Had he stayed like that, Baby may well have crashed, and you're too blissed out to care about that, but if you died before you got to taste his come, that would be pretty fucking sad.

That doesn't happen, though. Because, from the backseat, you can see now that a big hand has grabbed hold of Dean's head to push it back into driving position.

Dean's breath catches in a strained gasp as his cock spastically twitches on your tongue, suddenly too shocked to come. "What the—the  _fuck_ , Sam...!"

"Shhh. Just keeping your head steady," Sam replies calmly. "Eyes on the road, Dean."

"Get your damn hand off me..."

"You want this car to crash?" Sam asks, and you watch in perverse fascination as his grip on his brother's head tightens, realizing now from the slick stroking sound coming from the back of the car that Sam's other hand must be gripped tight around his own shaft, forcefully pumping himself as he takes Dean's earlobe tenderly between his lips. "You want us all to die like this? Know your head's not gonna stay straight unless I'm holding it. Not with the way this filthy slut is fucking worshiping your dick."

Dean bites down hard on his plump lower lip. "God, Sammy— _shit_..."

Then, unexpectedly, Sam's piercing gaze switches to you all of a sudden. "Tell me, bitch. Isn't he delicious? Fucking perfect?"

Your head is already eagerly bobbing, but you quicken the motion, heightening your enthusiasm as you moan around Dean's luscious length in a resounding hum. "Mmmph-hmmmmph."

Sam's hazel eyes have shifted slightly—they're not so much on you, now; rather, on the cock that's still constantly thrusting deep in and out of your mouth, the girth of it practically busting your lips. "Yeah, that's it. Choke on that big beautiful dick. Show him how perfect he is."

You want nothing more than to keep doing exactly this. And the way Sam's getting off on what's happening somehow makes your desire even stronger, which you know is sick, but you're  _so_ far past caring about it. You're not even ashamed of how wet you get when the younger Winchester leans in more deeply over the front seat and angles his face toward Dean's, pressing his lips into his big brother's blushing cheek in a long, loving kiss.

The driver's hand spasms and almost falls off of the wheel, at that, but the slight swerve of the car doesn't stop Sam from what he's doing. Just spurs him on, if anything. He kisses Dean again, lips inching closer toward his brother's mouth, which is wide open and gasping for air. You can tell that Sam is so blissed out right now that the Impala could crash and erupt into flames and he won't even notice, let alone care. "Dean. I am so fucking sorry for all the shit I said and did back there."

Dean shudders, eyes tightly shut. "Sam, can you  _not_ —ugh, God..."

You don't know what Sam is talking about; probably some shit relating to that old ghost Dr. Ellicott. More importantly in this moment, you're genuinely not sure if the elder Winchester is into what is happening or not. The car still hasn't stopped. His dick, as it continues driving deeper into your throat, is still hard as a fucking rock. The hand that was slapping your ass has returned to your head in his lap, tangling in your messy hair, holding you there, gripping onto you like an anchor, an anchor keeping him in the safe space of straight non-incestuous sex, as you gulp down every inch of his huge cock. His eyes keep closing and reopening again in an attempt to keep the car from careening straight toward death as his head spins from his brother's recent dirty talk and—in some ways, even dirtier—his passionate sweet talk.

Sam goes on. "You know none of that's true. Hating you, killing you... that's the last thing I could ever do. You know damn well how I really feel about you."

Dean sighs as that loving mouth returns down to his ear, taking the lobe softly between pearly teeth. "Sammy, please..."

"Please what, Dean?" Sam breathes, dropping his lips onto Dean's neck, teasing the pulse point, flicking out his tongue. "Want me to stop?"

"I—ughhh..."

"Dean. I love you so fucking much," Sam professes, lips and tongue and teeth worshiping his brother's sweat-beaded skin everywhere they touch. "Every night I get so damn hard dreaming about your sweet ass, your big cock. Getting off on how gorgeous you are. I know it's wrong, but Dean, come  _on_. You know it's not my fault. Not my fault my brother is a fucking sex god."

Dean's glowing eyes flash open as Sam's tongue reaches the corner of his brother's lips, tracing the edge of his mouth, twitching in bliss as Dean lets out a smutty, dirty groan, setting the entire car on fire with the sound. " _Fuuuck_ —"

"Fuck yes," Sam pants, diving in for a full-on kiss, landing on a chiseled ridge of jawline when Dean desperately shifts his head to resist. "You're gonna come, Dean. I can feel it. Go on, let it all out. Right in her dirty whore mouth. Get off on how much she wants you. And how much I love you."

The huge cock that you've still been sucking so hard, nonstop for all this while, fucking convulses in your throat. "Ohhh..."

"Yeah, that's it. Gag this dirty bitch with your huge dick. Give her all that cream she fucking wants. Then maybe we'll pull over so that you can slam her down onto the hood, let me rim your tight ass real good, feel my tongue inside you while you fuck her slutty little cunt."

Dean's whole body jerks with a deep, sinful grunt. " _Son of a_ —"

"Want me to suck your come out of her mouth, Dean? All that hot fucking cream?"

By this point Dean is bursting at the seams, and these few seconds leading up to his explosion in your mouth are so delicious. "God,  _yes_...!"

"You heard him, bitch. Do as he says," Sam commands, letting go of his own dick to join his brother in grabbing hold of your head, your face now held in place by both Winchesters' hands. "Keep all that sweet come on your tongue. No fucking swallowing."

And then Dean Winchester unloads into your throat and it is utter fucking  _magic_. The fact that you are not allowed to drink it down is so damn tragic. You're a greedy naughty girl, though, so you're bound to cheat and let yourself guzzle a little—there's so much of this sweet, creamy come that you're sure Sam would never be able to tell. Especially because it's overflowing now, sloshing out of the sides of your wide open mouth, spilling all over Dean, glistening white on the tense muscles of his thighs, his godly seed mixed with your gooey spit, sticky and slick as it soaks up his jeans and the seat of his ride.  _Holy mother of all fucking hell._

" _Fuck_ , Dean...!" Sam groans loudly from the backseat. "Never seen you come this hard. Look at that. God, you are so fucking  _hot_."

As the juicy waves of pleasure pulsating into your mouth finally come to a stop, Sam plants one more adoring kiss on his big brother's heavy-breathing neck, and then next thing you know, you feel his full weight on your back as he clambers desperately over the seat, then rolls over your body to hunker down onto the floor of the car, face upturned toward his brother, down on his knees. He's a big guy, so fitting himself into the space between the seat and the dash is a super tight squeeze. Not that he minds at all, of course. You're pretty sure he likes tight squeezes when it comes to Dean.

"Holy— _shit_ , Sammy..." Dean breathlessly heaves.

He watches in awe as Sam grabs your head and slides it slowly off of his thick, throbbing cock.

You make sure to seal your lips tight once you're off, knowing just what Sam wants.

The younger Winchester tilts his head back like a whore, hazel eyes sparkling with thirst as you place your face over his, in a position that will give Dean a sweet view of the come dripping out of your mouth onto Sam's panting lips. 

"Yeeeah. Now spit it all into my mouth, fucking slut. Every drop," he pleads, gaping up at you hungrily, wide eyes agleam as your lips finally unlock to give him what he needs. He moans in ecstasy as the pearly come starts flooding his mouth, then starts wagging his head around like a bitch so that some of it lands on his forehead and nose, cheeks and chin, showering him down. "Ugh,  _God_ , so good. Want it all over my face. Don't stop. Don't fucking stop."

You can't see Dean's face at the moment, but from the filthy sound of him growling and groaning, you can sure as hell imagine how he looks. "Son of— _fuuuck_..."

Soon your face is buried in his crotch again to lick and suck off all the come that hadn't made it to your mouth, every precious drop that had leaked down, savoring Dean's flavor once more before leaning over his brother to continue spitting it all out. Sam makes it obvious in every way that he has never wanted anything so much. And you can't blame him at all for being such a slut. That's just what the godly glory of Dean Winchester does.

Once Sam is done cleaning out every inch of your mouth with his ravenous tongue, you heave a deep satisfied sigh and let your head fall back into Dean's lap, then turn so that your cheek is nestled right between his legs, the angle letting you press kisses all over his sweaty pink sack and the base of his shaft. You love looking up at his beautiful face while you're doing that. But it's not long before your view is blocked, as Sam leans in and brings his mouth inches away from the tip of Dean's cock. Though you can't see his expression from here, you can easily envision him gazing up reverently at his brother, all puppy eyes and parted lips, face covered in come and getting off on it, and you can hear his cheeky little smile when he speaks.

" _Damn_ , Dean," Sam breathes euphorically. "She may be the extra cookie. But I got all the cream."

 

***************

 

Hours later on this fine filthy morning, the three of you are finally all fucked out, naked bodies sprawled shamelessly on the ground beside the Impala on the side of this random old road. By now Dean has ravaged both of you in every hole, multiple times, in every possible position, and each of you has tasted every last inch of his skin, worshiped every flawless part of him, just to remind him that he is divine. 

Even after all of that, the sight of Dean's throbbing, softening cock still has both of you hypnotized. Not surprisingly, it turns out that you are slightly less obsessed than Sam—you're the one who manages to look away first, closing your eyes in an attempt to recover from what feels like an eternal thirst, then opening them to stare up at the wide sun-streaked sky. 

"Well... hell. Maybe you guys are the ones who need to be locked up in some asylum," you breathlessly tell them.

"Like you're one to judge," the younger Winchester snaps back. "You loved it just as much as us, you kinky slut."

"Speak for yourself, bitch," Dean grumbles. He is clearly already trying to forget this ever happened, which is fucking adorable. "You sick little bastard."

"Yeah, sure. Jerk," Sam answers his brother with a naughty smirk. "Whatever you say. It's not as if it matters."

Dean is already standing up and scanning his surroundings, probably searching for his underwear and jeans. "What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"Your cock already did all the talking, Dean," his brother teases proudly. "More than you could ever tell."

"Yeah, well..." the older Winchester looks off into the distance for a second, realizing in the same heartbroken instant that his clothing and his dignity are both too far beyond his field of vision. The emeralds in his gaze fade to a paler shade of jade as the deep, dirty truth washes over him. He slumps down beside the car, letting his bare ass hit the ground hard, letting go and giving in, to everything, even if only for a moment. Surrendering. And surrender never looked so fucking sexy. Never suited anyone so well. 

"...fuck," he murmurs. "We are sogoing to hell."

 

***************

 

"So, cookie," Dean addresses you playfully once you've all got your clothes back on, "wanna join us back at the motel?"

You smile at him, then glance briefly over at Sam, who has already gotten back into the car. In the backseat—gracious enough to let you ride shotgun, again.

Turning down Dean Winchester is something that should never be humanly possible. But maybe some of this man's superhuman qualities have rubbed off onto you from all that sex, because you realize now that you have the strength to do just that: resist the irresistible. "Thanks, Dean, that's... really tempting. I love your cock more than anything. Love being your dirty little whore," you purr, loving how his green eyes glimmer at your words. "But  _he_... he loves you more."

_So much for that glimmer._  Dean's eyes are instantly darker, dimmer.

You keep at it, though. Because that's how you roll. "And I think—I mean, I'm no shrink, but..."

Dean seizes at the chance to change the subject. "Yeah, thank God you're no Dr. Ellicott."

"Hey, don't disrespect," you respond, letting him sidetrack the conversation for a minute, just because you love playing around with him like this.  _You're really gonna miss it. How could you not._  "I've got a kink for ghosts and bet that old sicko was pretty hot."

He purses his plump, perfect lips. "Oh really. So, me saving your ass—did that ruin your shot?"

"Totally, Dean. Thanks a lot," you answer with a royal eye-roll. "Instead I had to settle for your human cock."

"Hmm," he hums, coming toward you, winding an arm around your hips to pull you closer into him. "Well, if  _that_ was settling... then what're you like when you  _really_ want something?"

Given how mind-numbingly good he smells, the fact that you're able to keep up your witty banter is a miracle. You're pretty fucking impressed with yourself. "Good thing you'll never know," you lean in close to whisper in his hear, teasing the lobe between your lips. "I don't think you could handle it."

" _Damn_ , you've got such a mouth on you, kid," he growls, taking hold of your head to shut your sassy tongue up with his, claiming your lips in a quick, dirty kiss. "I fucking love it."

You smirk up at him, then softly clamp your teeth around his luscious lower lip. "Know you do." 

The silent reply in your mind plays on repeat as the two of you make out like stupid horny teenagers for a few more seconds:  _I fucking love you... but more importantly, your brother does, too_.

"Anyway," you sigh once you finally summon the strength to pull away, "before you cut me off, I was gonna say—"

"Yeah," Dean doesn't hesitate to interrupt you yet again. "You don't have to say it, though. Cut you off 'cause I already know."

You study his gorgeous face for a moment, then look over toward Sam, who is still sitting in the car. Waiting patiently this time around.  _Probably because he's finally lived out all his wettest dreams of hot sex with his brother now_. "So you guys are gonna talk about... all this? Figure shit out?"

Dean nods his pretty head. "Kid, we kill monsters for a living."

You furrow your brows at him. "That doesn't answer the question."

"What? 'Course it does. We're pros at ganking evil sons of bitches. Pretty sure we'll find a way to gank the monsters in us."

You're not sure what's sadder—what he said, or the way he said it. But either way, you're not about to cry; a badass bitch like you never does. "You think this thing between the two of you is... monstrous?"

"Well, duh. There any other way to see it?"

Biting your lip, you summon all your strength again to meet his gaze without fucking crying. "For what it's worth, Dean—I don't think you have to see it as a sin."

His brows crinkle up in confusion, and it's the goddamn cutest thing. "But you said..."

"That you guys should be locked up? I was just teasing, you big beautiful idiot." 

"Heh. Aren't you always," he chuckles, looking down at his feet, then leaning back against the car and letting his gaze drift off somewhere very, very faraway. "But you know, I... I still can't see it any other way. And I dunno about Sammy, but I sure as fuck don't want either of us ever going to hell."

Your badass heart breaks just a little bit, strong enough to let yourself be fragile. Dean is such a fucking hero, with a righteous soul and heart of gold—you haven't known him long at all, but you can so already tell—that him ending up downstairs after death is just unthinkable.

Yet something in the pit of your stomach, the core of your heart, tells you that, somehow...  _for reasons deep and dark that you can't even start to figure out_... for both Winchester brothers, that very fate—burning in hell—is inevitable. No matter how they don’t deserve it. But something also tells you that, if any two men can get themselves out of the fiery pit once they've fallen into it... it's them.

_Obviously all of that is bullshit. Crazy thoughts that make no sense._  So you just respond to what Dean said, about not wanting him and his brother to end up in hell. "Well, if that's really how you feel about it, then... I hope you find a way to save yourselves."

His lip twitches in a way that makes your heart melt; you realize then that your love for this man is the strongest and most fragile thing you've ever felt. 

"We will. And maybe we'll save a few others while we're at it," Dean says, meeting your gaze again, flashing the hottest little wink, which hits you harder than a slap. "Like your pretty little ass."

He turns to open the car door for you, and you take the chance to smack one of the cheeks of his beautiful butt through his jeans. "You're the one with the pretty ass, Dean."

"Ohh, did baby girl just smack Daddy?  _Rawr_ ," he growls with a sex-hungry smirk, straight out of your dirtiest dreams, as he opens the shotgun side door. "Now get in the damn car. I'm gonna drive my favorite cookie home and fill you up with extra cream."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10 episodes in! Now only 290 to go ;P We'll see how long I can keep this up lol... Kudos and comments keep me going, so please keep them coming :)
> 
> Still considering the request thing (from the notes on Chapter 9). Love you guys! <3


	11. (S01E11) Freakin' Worth It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 11 ("Scarecrow")*
> 
> *In which you are Emily, the sacrificial niece*
> 
> Tonight, you are supposed to sacrifice yourself in service of some creepy scarecrow god thing.
> 
> But right now, alone in this cellar with Dean, he is the only god that you can see. And all you want to do is service him. 
> 
> Thankfully, there's some rope in this place. And a whip. It's perfect—Dean can make you his slave, tie you up, beat your ass if you disobey. Give you the pain and punishment you crave... Make your time together in this cellar freakin' worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how Jensen sometimes sings that song "Whipping Post" at conventions? Well, this scene is for bitches like myself who really, really, really want to be a fucking whipping post for him/Dean.

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 11 ("Scarecrow")***

***In which you are Emily, the sacrificial niece***

 

****

 

"Why are you doing this?"

You ask through the tears that have started to fall, with no clue at all just how your wholesome aunt and uncle have turned out to be so monstrous. Never in all your life have you been so terrified. The only silver lining you can find behind this dark turn of events is that this Dean guy—the flawless-looking stranger who cruised his fine ass into town yesterday—is here in this cellar, standing by your side.

And it's one hell of a bright, beautiful silver lining. Such a blessing. Because  _fuck_ , he looks and smells so good you could just die.

You know that's not the kind of thought that should be running through your mind. Not here and now, stricken with fear for your safety, your life. But losing yourself in desire for Dean just feels...  _really damn nice_. It feels right. It's comforting, somehow, you have to admit. Dangerously comforting. You don't even care if it doesn't make sense.

Interrupting your thoughts, just before the cellar door slams shut, Aunt Stacy looks down cruelly at the two of you as she utters her bone-chilling response. "For the common good."

Then you're plunged into darkness. You gasp, blinking as your tearful eyes adjust, instinctively reaching for Dean, clutching his arm in a tight grasp, which quickly turns into a desperate caress. Even through his jacket, you can feel the incredible bulge of his bicep, and  _God_ , it's just...

"It's okay, kid," he murmurs, shifting to give you the comfort you crave, gently pulling you close, letting you bury your sobbing face in his broad, sculpted chest. "I'll get us out of this. Promise. S'okay."

The silent answer in your head is beyond shameless. But here with your cheek pressed against his firm pecs, shuddering in bliss as you breathe in his mouthwateringly manly scent, you could honestly just live and die like this. You bite your tongue to hold back what you really want to say.  _Please don't, Dean—don't get us out of this... I want to stay..._

With one hand still gripping his strong upper arm, you reach up to wind the other over his shoulder, clasping at the back of his neck, clinging onto his tall, sturdy body like ivy to brick. You can feel a faint layer of sweat on his neck that you're instantly dying to lick.

"What did they tell you?" Dean asks as he starts pulling back, tenderly taking hold of your shoulders to push you away. But not too far, thank God—just enough to meet your gaze as you stare up into his gorgeous face, now that your vision has adapted to the dimness of this dank, shadowy space. "About... what they're gonna do?"

You lift your shoulders in a feeble shrug and shake your head. "Just—just that they had no choice but to do this. And that I should prepare to perform... to perform a profound service. To give myself, to submit to a greater purpose."

 _Well, shit_ , you think _._  The words sound even worse coming from your own mouth. Horror sinks in deep and heavy, now that you're repeating them aloud.

"Oh, God..." you whisper, dread crawling over your every nerve ending. But here, with him, as you give voice to your fear, you can't deny that dread isn't the only thing you're feeling. "...are they going to sell me as a sex slave or something?"

The hottest sound you've ever heard bursts softly from Dean's throat. It's low and quiet, caught between a breathy laugh and a breathless groan. You bite down on your lip then, to stifle your own slutty moan. His glorious green eyes are still on yours, full lips parted slightly, and the way his tongue visibly traces along the inner edge of his pearly front teeth, you can tell that the answer to your question is no.

That's not the answer you want, though. It's precious that Dean doesn't already know. Some part of him probably does, but it's gonna take a little more for him to let it show.

And you're gonna give him more than just a little more.

With a bat of your lashes, flashing him a flirty smile, you drop to your knees before Dean like a cheap dirty whore.

"Oh f—" he stammers, too shocked to even utter the full curse, emerald eyes wide in wonder, "what are..."

"Practice," you purr, eager hands framing his hips, "I think I should practice performing... service..."

Dean sucks in a sharp hiss as you bury your face in the crotch of his jeans, massaging his dick through the denim with your lips and teeth.

"Practice makes... perfect, doesn't it?" you say as you savor the smell and the feel of his meat. Good enough to eat. "Though you already are, Dean. You're just the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Every inch of you is freakin' perfect."

Dean throws his head back briefly as your puckered lips keep on servicing him, his huge cock hardening with each kiss. "Son of a  _bitch_..."

"Mmm, make me your bitch, Dean.  _Please_. I wanna be your slave. Serve you in every way," you shamelessly confess as your hands set to work on his fly to unleash his massive majestic dick, his godly glorious scepter. "I don't even care what happens after this. We're here now, all alone together, in this shady little cellar..."

When his cock finally springs free, you could swear this throbbing piece of meat is your entire life's purpose, all set to be serviced and worshiped, because Dean's delicious existence demands and deserves it. The sight alone just makes you want to die—then there's that heady musky scent, the heavy feel as you wrap both your hands around it, and the taste must be as sweet as apple fucking pie, you bet.  _So. Damn. Perfect._

You gaze up at his perfect face as you finish your sentence. "... so let's make it freakin' worth it."

 

***************

 

The first order you take from Dean Winchester, as he finally falls into his role as your master, is to get your filthy hands off of his dick. You are not to touch it till you've fucking earned it. Like a dog, like the bitch that you are, he tells you to just sit. To stay down on your knees and to not move an inch, not even turn your head as he strides toward the far wall behind you, brutally keeping his beautiful self beyond your field of vision for a minute. You bite your lip, listening to the footsteps and movements that he won't let you witness. Rustling noises. You hope that he's stripping off his stupid clothes. That when you see him next, he'll be towering over you gorgeously naked.

And  _God yes_ , he is, when he returns at last to stand before his bitch. You groan in sheer bliss as your awestruck eyes try to take in every last flawless inch of his smooth, glowing skin. There is just... too much perfection. You couldn't even process the divine glory of Dean in a whole damn lifetime, let alone one split second.

Hypnotized though you are by him, your gaze then shifts to notice what he's holding, and...  _holy shit._  Apparently he hadn't gone to the far wall just to undress. He had taken stock of the supplies and other items stored down in this shady cellar, and he has returned bearing gifts: a coil of rope, long and thick, and a wicked-looking leather whip.

"Like what you see, huh?" he taunts, no doubt referring to both his new toys and his nude body, especially his dick. "Kinky little bitch. Now get up and strip."

"Yes, Master," you blurt out, rising to your feet, hastening to obey his order.

"Bad slave. You are not to speak until I say you can," Dean commands, taking a deliberate step toward you. With both rope and whip clutched in one fist, he reaches to cup your chin with his other hand. "Do you fucking understand?"

Fighting your burning urge to scream  _Yes sir_ , somehow you keep your lips sealed and just nod your head.

Dean's blazing green gaze devours your face as his fingers descend to frame your jawbone, then to close around your throat. "That's a good slut. Keep that dirty mouth shut. Or else you're gonna suffer some serious punishment."

 _Fuck_ —hearing him talk like this, while he strangles your neck in his dominant fist, is too much. You've become a trembling mess beneath his touch.

"Mmm, look at you shaking. Desperate piece of shit. I'm starting to think that maybe punishment..." he whispers in your ear as he tightens his grip around your neck, "...is what you fucking  _want_."

 _Oh_   _God_ , your inner voice grunts, struggling not to say it aloud. In the most painfully perfect way, the fact that he's choking you now actually makes it easier to stay silent. Dean's husky growl and twisted words are sending waves of pleasure through your body, hitting all the spots you never knew you had and soaking up your cunt.

"Yeah, you're begging for it. Already ignoring your master's orders. Disobedient bitch," he scoffs, shoving you up against a nearby wall, his every movement rough and quick. "Didn't I tell you to strip?"

Before you can even manage to nod at him, Dean's hand drops from your neck down to the buttons of the sweater that you're wearing, which your dear auntie had once knit.

"Need me to show you how to do it? You that fucking stupid?" he sneers, suddenly yanking off the sweater with just a few effortless jerks of his wrist. "Now take off the rest. And then go stand against that beam. Hands on the wood, head down, with your ass facing me."

Dean steps away, deep green glare dark and daunting as he watches his slave scurry to obey. In a matter of seconds, your clothes and shoes have been flung off, and you practically throw yourself against the wooden beam, grabbing the jagged surface desperately, wincing as the splinters graze your fingers. Even that sharp little sting feels good, because this is what Dean wanted.

You keep your head bent low, bowed submissively per your master's orders, breathing shallow as you feel his presence coming toward you from behind, steady and slow. A gasp slips past your throat when you feel his calloused hands upon your wrists, binding your hands to the beam with the thick, heavy rope. The knots securing you in place are strong and tight, expertly tied.  _This must not be Dean's first time doing this_ , you realize, beyond turned on by his well-practiced dominance. By just what a masterful master he is.

"Mmm. You look so fucking pretty like this," he rasps, leaning over your body with his massive cock grinding into your ass, sliding against the crack so that you can feel the tip of it, swollen and wet, hovering over the small of your back. One of his hands tugs at your loosely tied ponytail, arching your neck backward a bit as his lips attack the soft skin of your throat in a harsh, biting kiss. "Beautiful baby girl, all bound up naked and aching to be punished. You gonna take it? Good and hard, just like the slave you know you are? Gonna be a good little bitch?"

His hot mouth teases at the corner of your lips, knowing how badly you want to kiss him, to taste him, fucking torturing you with it. Though his firm grip on your ponytail is anchoring your head right where he pleases, you're sure that he can feel the way you struggle now to bob it up and down, to give him your wholehearted  _yes_.

"Yeah, that's it. Ever done this before, you dirty whore? This sweet ass ever taken a beating?"

You're not quite sure how to answer that—certain guys from your past have given your ass a few smacks, here and there, when you asked... but you don't know if that kind of thing really counts as a beating. The dynamic with them was never nearly as brutal and degrading. And they had only ever used their hands; no toys or torture instruments.

"Can't even answer the question? Dumb little bitch," Dean snickers as his face moves away from your neck, standing to his full height behind you, then stepping back so that his dick is no longer brushing against your crack, leaving you feeling emptier than ever at his absence. "Not that it matters. 'Cause I'm sure you ain't ever been beaten like this."

 _Ohhh shit_ , you think, inhaling through your teeth with a loud hiss as you feel the first soft touch of leather on your skin, his wicked fucking whip. For now he is just devilishly teasing you with it, tracing lines down your back with the tip.

"This what you want, slut? Gonna need to hear you beg for it," he orders, his other hand still wrapped around your ponytail, pulling your skull more sharply back. "Go on. Open that filthy fucking mouth and tell me what you want."

"Thank you, Master," you whimper, letting all your shameless words fall out. "I want  _you_. God, I want you to beat me. Hurt me.  _Please_. I want pain, if it will bring you pleasure, sir. I want my punishment."

"Mmmmn," Dean growls, clearly incredibly aroused, and you could seriously come just from that sound. "Bet you do, bitch. Let's see just how bad you want it, huh? See how wet you've gotten. Needy little cunt."

You've already been dripping now, for more minutes than you can count. The next sound you hear is a soft thud, which you're guessing is the whip having been cast down to the ground. Dean needs his right hand free to start going to town on your pussy.

The words that have just come out of his mouth, coupled with the feeling of his fingers making contact with your slick mound, sliding over your clit, slipping into your slit and stirring you up, swirling your wet heat around, then plunging three digits in knuckles deep, pushing in and back out slowly first before he starts to fucking  _pound_... this just brings all the walls inside you crashing down. Floodgates in you burst open on the instant as your arousal uncontrollably gushes out. It's killing you to stay silent through all of this, but you don't dare disobey his orders, don't dare make a sound.

"Holy  _fuuuck_ ," Dean grunts as he pulls his hand off of your cunt. "So wet. Tight pussy squirting all over your master. Such a dirty fucking slut."

He reaches over you to shove his sloppy, sticky fingers in your mouth, your cheek pressing against the wooden beam as you obediently suck them clean. You're not usually one to enjoy your own flavor that much, but  _fuck_ , it tastes better than ever now that you are being fed by Dean.

Then as soon as his fingers pull out, he leans in and angles your head toward him so that he can kiss your mouth, and holy  _wow_. You know right away that you could never get enough of the feel of his full, luscious lips against yours, the taste of his talented tongue as it fucking invades and explores. He hums and groans into the kiss, sending resonant vibrations of his dominance down your throat and all over your mouth, and  _damn_ , you kind of really want to die right now.

But you don't. Of course, not yet. More than anything you're still desperate for your punishment.

"Fucking perfect little slave," Dean snarls as he pulls away, and you can hear him squatting down behind you to pick up his whip. 

Before he does, while he's down there on his haunches, he takes the chance to manhandle your ass cheeks, groping firmly and then biting down on one of them, pausing to admire the mark that he made on your flesh with his ravenous teeth, then giving that spot a wet, open-mouthed kiss, and finally a sharp, stinging slap. Your knees buckle from how much you fucking liked that.

"Slut," he chuckles as he gives that cheek a few more smacks, each harder than the last. He makes sure to give the same sweet kinky treatment to the other cheek, biting and kissing then spanking both halves with his big, sturdy hands before he finally picks up his whip, one palm still groping your ass as he stands.

"Ready to feel this whip lashing your pretty little ass?" Dean dominantly asks. "Tell me, slave. How many do you want."

You're so blissed out right now that you barely have control over your lolling tongue. "Uh... uh—a lot."

"That's not a number, slut. Give me a number you can fucking count."

" _Ughhhh_..." you groan out as he trails the strip of leather wickedly against your ass, "...umm, a hundred?"

A soft laugh escapes his throat. "That's cute. You must be new to this, kid. I'm not about to beat you dead."

Some part of you right now kind of likes the sound of that.  _Which is maybe... sort of... bad?_  Dean is still talking, so for better or for worse, you don't really have time to dwell on that.

"I can do a hundred. But only if each one is... weak... and soft..." he tells you, bending over your body to press his lips against your face again, kissing your cheek, tender and sweet. "Is that what you want? Or does this filthy bitch want it  _hard_?"

His mouth has descended to bite down on your neck as he says it, causing you to cry out in bliss. " _Fuck_  yes, please—hard!"

Dean huffs out another sexy little laugh. "That's what I fucking thought. I'm gonna give you ten to start," he offers, leaving wet kisses on the smooth skin that he'd bitten. "Ten nice and hard. That sound good, baby girl? And you just tell me if you want more. Or... if it's too much, if you ever want me to lighten up, or stop—"

"I won't," you blurt out. " _God_ , Dean, I want... I need you to just fucking beat my ass off."

"Mmmn. Babe, you are fucking  _awesome_ , you know that?" he growls, fondly nuzzling your neck for a second before he pulls back, standing behind you, with his rock hard cock once again hovering over your crack. "But Dean's not my name right now. Is it. What do you call me, slut."

You cringe at your own unforgivable error." _Master_. I'm so sorry, sir."

"Yeah, you better be, bitch," he snarls, as the whip that has been gliding delicately over your body suddenly lifts away from your skin. "Fucking take it."

 _Holy—fucking—shit._ The sharp, searing pain that you feel in that instant is so goddamn  _perfect_. Electric, explosive, exquisite. Everything Dean is. Your life as you know it is finished; you live only to serve and to worship this god of a man who deals out such sweet punishment. You love it. You love him.

The rugged velvet sound of Dean's voice in this moment just deepens your love for him, heightens your pleasure. "Count 'em for me, whore," he orders ruthlessly. "Want more?"

"One... Thank you, sir," you sigh, hazy from the incredible high. " _Please_ , Master. More."

For a hell of a long time, Dean gives you everything you beg him for. And every second of the pleasurable pain is so damn dirty, so damn pure, completely perfect. But you both know that, given what a desperate slut and dedicated slave you are, you will literally never want him to stop. So Dean is the one who hits pause, when he decides he should. You never wanted it to end, but this is what your master wants—so as much as it saddens you, still you just give in, and still it feels good.

" _Damn_ , baby," he breathes, dropping the whip, gently kneading your ass as he leans down to leave a trail of kisses up your spine with his soft, sinful lips. "Guess I should've known better than to ask you for a number. Such a good little slave. But we're gonna stop here, okay?"

"Yes, Master," you whisper.

"You know why we're gonna stop?" he teases as his mouth reaches the back of your neck. "It's not just because I'm done with beating you. Nah, the real reason is that... there's something even better I've been dying to do."

Part of you already knows what it is. And all of you wants it. Needs it.

Dean tilts your head to claim your mouth in a kiss, as his huge dick aligns with your soaking wet slit. "Mmmn. That's it, bitch," he moans into your lips. "Gonna fucking  _fuck_  you."

Everything about Dean Winchester is literally magic. So, as his massive cock basically breaks your body in half, as his heavy balls slap up against your cunt with each ferocious thrust so hard and fast, as his dominant hands grope and grab all over your just beaten ass... every inch of you feels so damn  _blessed_  upon contact. You can't imagine any better way to recover from your punishment. Not that you ever really want to recover from it—mostly you just want more and more of it—but no matter what you want, healing is what you need. 

And Dean heals just as well as he hurts. Even better, in fact. Once he's done fucking your pussy rough and dirty, shooting his divine come deep inside you just the way you beg him to, he unties your ropes and then spends the next hour or so kissing and caressing and cuddling with you, massaging your ravaged ass cheeks with his hands and mouth, taking you to heaven when that sweet mouth eats you out, and even when he lets you worship his cock the way you've been dying to do, even when he grabs your head and fucks your face before he explodes down your throat, even then it still feels like healing, and you both really needed that feeling.

He lifts you up to kiss you, deep and slow, on the lips before you are even done swallowing his come. You let yourself drown in that beautiful face, hoping that Dean knows how damn good he tastes. How perfect he is in every way. That he is a fucking god, that everyone on earth should kneel before him as his slave.

When the kiss finally ends, as you both try to catch your breath for a few seconds, you notice that his gaze is distant.

"We should probably put some clothes on, babe," he murmurs, voice burdened with something heavy, breaking from the weight. "What I'm about to tell you isn't... really... well, it's not exactly sexy."

You drop a doting kiss on his rosy pink cheek. "Dean. Anything you say always will be."

He cracks a smile, though the sorrow doesn't leave his eyes. "That's sweet, baby. But, I mean—what those sons of bitches are planning to do to us, it's... it's some serious shit."

Your head bobs in a knowing nod. Part of you has known all along. Your aunt and uncle, all these twisted townspeople, aren't about to sell you into sexual slavery. They're setting you up to perform a very different kind of service, and Dean is right—there is nothing sexy about it.

"Yeah, I'm sure it is," you say as you press one last loving kiss to his sweet, perfect lips. "But didn't you promise that you're gonna get us out of this?"

He nods, looking softly into your eyes as you lift off his mouth, his smile a little less sorrowful now. "Yeah. I did."

You can tell that Dean sincerely meant it when he made that promise—but that deep down, he doubts his own abilities, a little bit. Yet you don't doubt him for a second. You have complete faith and belief in him; somehow you know that you won't die tonight. That both of you will make it out alive. 

Still, there's no denying that you two are stuck in the middle of some serious deep shit. But after having experienced such punishment and pain and pleasure, such submission and service and slavery, such sex and  _love_  with Dean today down in this cellar—which you're pretty sure would not have happened under any other circumstances, ever...

"Well," you sigh, breathing in his scent for what you hope won't have to be the final time, "whatever happens next, Dean... this was..."

"Definitely," he cuts in to finish your sentence, eyes finally bright with a full smile on his lips. "Freakin' worth it."

 

***************

 

"I hope your apple pie is freakin' worth it!" Dean shouts at the townsfolk later on that day, just before they leave the two of you to your death.

Even in the face of imminent doom, hearing him say that makes you swoon, a little bit.

By morning, Dean has saved you from the creepy scarecrow thing. The Norse god, or whatever it is. You don't give much of a shit because the only god that you can see is him. 

He lets you do the honors of setting the sacred tree in the orchard on fire, burning it down, which will lead to the death of your entire town. That's what you want to happen, after what these monsters so heartlessly tried to do to you—and, even worse, tried to do to  _Dean_. You wouldn't hesitate to slaughter anyone who ever tried to hurt him, honestly.

Dean and his brother Sam stick around town for a bit, because Dean insisted on seeing you off, making sure that you're safe as you board the next bus to Boston. They drive you back to your place, waiting outside in his sexy-ass car, giving you some time to gather your things. 

But there's one place you need to visit one last time, before you leave this town forever. Just to reminisce about what happened there, maybe to grind up against that wooden beam, get yourself off again as you remember. The memory of the time you spent with Dean, underground all alone together, is one that you will always treasure.

You sneak off to the backyard, rushing over to the cellar, already giddy as you swing open the door...

... and _he_  is there. Beautifully existing at the foot of the stairs. Apparently Dean had the same idea, or else had read your mind and knew that you would feel compelled to return to this place, and wanted to be here when you did. Whatever it is, it's just  _perfect_.

He stands up as you stare at him from the top of the stairway. Although he had just saved your life yesterday, right now it feels like the dominant look on his face kills you dead.

And goddamn—it is  _so_  freakin' worth it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this :) I am a whore for kudos and comments so please keep them coming <33


	12. (S01E12) Mysterious Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 12 ("Faith")*
> 
> *In which you are Layla Rourke*
> 
> You meet Dean today. Tell him that God works in mysterious ways. He bets you do, too.
> 
> And yes you fucking do. You're a woman of faith, and you're about to worship this divine god in the best way you know how to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo this chapter is fluffy and sweet but also very kinky... the focus of the smut is on worshiping Dean's feet :P 
> 
> I know at least some of my readers are into that, and I'm sorry for those of you who aren't! This may still be worth reading anyway if you're into Dean fluff. And then you can skip the foot stuff. Or just whatever floats your Deanbitch boat :)

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 12 ("Faith")***

***In which you are Layla Rourke***

 

 

You've always been a woman of faith. But this is the first time that you have ever seen a holy being in the flesh, a divine creature of some sort, walking the earth in a godly gorgeous body.

Time stops as you behold his otherworldly beauty. Usually you picture God glowing, in glorious robes, but this god of a man—although nonetheless flawless—looks frail and unwell. And he's wearing a ruggedly cuddly hoodie.

You can't help but eavesdrop on his conversation with his tall friend. And you can't help but interrupt, twirling your umbrella as you turn to face them, standing right outside the faith healer's tent.

"Maybe God works in mysterious ways," you say, in response to the skeptical remarks you'd heard him make.

He turns to look at you, and though his face is pale from illness, still his smile is bright enough that you no longer feel the rain. "Maybe he does," he replies with a soft little chuckle, lifting his finger in a playful gesture then to illustrate what he says next. "I think you just turned me around on the subject."

His name is Dean, you learn with a skip of your heartbeat as he introduces himself. And, just by so breathtakingly existing, he has turned you around on everything. Your whole goddamn world upside down. He is the sun, the center of it all, and though your life may be lost in six months thanks to this illness of your own... it feels like something sweeter, far more sacred than life itself... has been found.

 

***************

 

 _There is just... something about her,_ Dean thinks, staying outside the tent for a second as he watches you go in. Can't put his finger on it, and that frustrates the shit out of him. Because he's always been really good with his fingers. Prides himself on his sinfully skillful digits— _they can hit whatever spot they want, goddamnit._

But for now he's just going to play the shameless flirt. Pretend that you're no different from any other girl, when he talks about you to his brother. It's always the same old game he plays.

"Well, I bet you she can work in some mysterious ways," he tells Sam before heading inside.

Tomorrow, in the morning light, you'll prove him right.

 

***************

 

_Dean wants to say goodbye?_

That's what Sam tells you when he calls. Doesn't really tell you why, not much of any explanation—just an invitation to come visit their motel room. Some part of you pauses before saying yes, but the pause doesn't last long at all.

Once you're there, Sam wastes no time excusing himself. Grabbing a soda, he says. You know better than to call bullshit, because being in a room alone with Dean, like this, is just the closest thing to heaven any girl on earth could get.

Even more so once you're sitting down, dangerously close to him, on the edge of this bed. You gaze into his gemstone eyes, breathe in his scent, and suddenly don't care at all that in just a few months you'll be... dead. You've never cared less about what's coming next. Because here now with Dean—in the presence of someone so precious, so perfect—an infinite lifetime exists in each moment.

Talking to him comes easy, despite the fact that he could strike anyone speechless with his beauty. Only Dean could make your heart race with the same magic that also keeps it beating calm and steady. You will never know how he does it. You don't care; you just need more of it. You love it.

It pains you to see him so torn up about what's going to happen to you. You've told him about how the faith healer's powers didn't come through, and clearly Dean feels worse about it than you do.

"Must be rough," he says after a brief pause, averting his gaze, green eyes low and heavy as he looks away. "To believe in something so much, and have it disappoint you like that."

You study his flawless features for a second.  _God, he's even more beautiful when he's sad._ "You wanna hear something weird?" you ask.

"Mm," he quietly hums as he turns to look into your eyes again.

"I'm okay," you tell him. "Really."

His mouth opens ever so slightly, as if inviting you in. The crease in his brow deepens a bit.

You smile, holding back the urge to kiss it. To kiss every sweet inch of him. Now more than ever, you are sure that he is everything you want. "I guess if you're gonna have faith... you can't just have it when the miracles happen. You have to have it when they don't."

Dean's pretty head shifts, just the subtlest shake as a soft breath full of some nameless emotion slips out past his parted lips.

The sight of him like this is just too much to take in this moment, so you look down into your lap, clasping your hands.

"So what now?" he asks.

When you look up at him again, those perfect lips of his are smiling, a little bit. Maybe some small part of him was glad to hear that you've made peace with certain death. But it breaks your heart to see that—even now that you've assured him you're okay—still he is full of sorrow and hate. Toward himself above, all else. Even now, after this... Dean doesn't hate himself any less.

You wish you could love him enough to overpower his self-hatred. But you're not sure if anyone ever could. You hope that maybe some angel in heaven someday would; you have to believe that higher powers will watch over him, take care of him. You have to have faith.

For now you just try to mirror his smile, even as you feel the unshed tears shining behind your eyes.

"God works in mysterious ways," you say, suddenly brave enough to lift your hand and let it brush against the side of his head in a tender caress, holding on for just a second, cradling the sacred beauty of his face.

You can't hold on for long. You know you have to let him go; to say goodbye, to let him carry on the wayward road that is his way of life.

"Goodbye, Dean," you breathe, turning away as you rise from the bed all too quickly, because the look in his eyes as you leave is just the most heartbreaking thing you've ever seen.

You can't see the way he shuts his eyes and sits still for a second, aching from the effect your tender touch had left upon his skin, and possibly deeper within. But you can certainly imagine.

"Hey..." Dean utters then, standing up as you turn to face him. "Um—"

Something sort of like a laugh releases from his mouth, a stifled gasp. He clears his throat. Each sound he makes is fragile, cracked, a frail transparent mask.

"You know, I'm not much of the praying type," he says, visibly struggling to be strong, because he knows he has to, "but... I'm gonna pray for you."

 _As if you needed a reason to adore him more now than you already do._ As if there's any doubt that every word Dean says, everything he does, will always be another reason. That is why you have to leave him.

"Well..." you sigh, tears swelling in your eyes as you lose yourself, for what might have to be the final time, in his evergreen stare, "there's a miracle right there."

 

***************

 

Sam is standing outside by the ice machine, brows raised as he watches you make your quiet exit. "That was quick."

You tilt your head quizzically at him. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs. "Just that usually it takes a girl a lot longer, to say goodbye. To Dean."

 _Oh. Apparently he's not above dropping obvious hints._  "Are you suggesting..."

"Nope," Sam insists, shaking his head, pushing out his lower lip in a pretense of puppy-dog innocence. "Not suggesting anything."

This little game that he's playing is precious. But that's not the real reason why you let yourself play right into it. "You know—come to think of it, I might have to go back in. May have forgotten... something..."

But something unspoken gives you pause, just then. The playful puppy in those hazel eyes had faded into something else, the moment you had started heading back toward the room.

Of course Sam thinks you didn't notice, but you're not above talking to him about it. You turn and walk over toward him, slowly. "Sam... why did you call me?"

He looks really small in this moment, for such a big guy. "You... you know why. So you and Dean could say goodbye."

"No—that look in your eyes," you say simply, full of genuine concern about the dark, twisted emotions you can see roiling inside of him. "You're not happy. Part of you wants me to leave."

Sam forces a laugh, but the sound comes out more like a sad, choking gasp. "Look, Layla, I... I just want whatever makes Dean happy. That's all that matters to me."

And at that, right then—it hits you. What he's really feeling. You just wish you'd seen it sooner; in hindsight it's painfully obvious. 

You'll have to speak in vague enough terms, so that both you and Sam can pretend that you haven't caught on to his secret. "Well, it... it sounds like you really love him. It's a beautiful thing, Sam," you reassure him in earnest. "Love always is."

"Not if he doesn't want it," he mutters beneath his breath, so muted you can barely hear him.

"Hm?"

"Never mind—sorry," Sam brushes it off quickly. "But he does want you. Trust me. And I'm pretty damn sure you want him, too."

Your head bobs in a heartbroken nod. Part of him might not want to hear it, but you both know it's true. "I do."

With a touch upon his shoulder that you hope provides some comfort, you silently urge Dean's beloved brother to meet your gaze. He does. And you both know, then. You both understand.

"Thank you, Sam," you murmur. "I'll give him all the love and happiness I can."

 

***************

 

Of course he expects to see Sam.

When you knock softly on the door, and when Dean opens it, you wish you could just capture that adorable expression on his face, hold it forever in your hands.

You smile thinking that, even if only for this moment...  _maybe you can_. "Hey, Dean."

"H-hi," he breathes, swinging the door open wide to beckon you inside. "I... I thought that was goodbye."

"So did I," you reply as you enter, sitting on the bed again. "But then I got to thinking... you know how you said you're gonna pray for me?" 

"Mm-hm," Dean hums as he closes the door and comes to sit beside you, just as you wanted him to.

You smile at him, placing a hand on his knee, feeling the warmth of his skin through his jeans. "Well," you whisper sultrily, "the way I see it... you're a god, Dean. I should be praying to you."

His green eyes widen as you shift position, watching as you drop down to the floor between his thighs. "Uhh... what do—"

"What do I mean?" you finish his sentence, your own eyes agleam. "Have you ever looked in a mirror, Dean? Seen what I've seen?"

Blush rises to his cheeks. "Look, Layla, that's—really sweet..."

"I know you probably think I'm too fragile, too pure, for you to play around the way you do with other girls," you speak in a voice ripe with sin, running your hands down his denim-sheathed shins. "But I promise I'm not too fragile to take it rough. Not too pure for a dirty fuck."

" _Ughh_..." is all he can manage to moan then, his head falling back as your words cut in straight to his cock.

Seeing him like this is absolute heaven. "Though maybe I am a little bit... different. From all of them," you tell him, massaging the tense, toned muscles of his legs through the thick cloth under your hands. "See, I'm all about faith. Even in the bedroom."

Dean's eyes look hazy, dazed even, as his gorgeous gaze drops down to you again. "I, uh... I think I can dig that. But how rough and dirty can we get if God's watching?"

 _Oh, there is so much you're gonna show him._  "God's always watching, Dean. Even when we're dirty, faith in the divine can keep us clean," you breathe, almost distracted by the growing bulge beneath his jeans, but not enough to break your focus on his flawless face. "Told you God works in mysterious ways."

He groans as he watches you drag your tongue slowly across your smirking lower lip. He can tell that you're aching for what you'll soon taste. "Mmm. Bet you can too, babe."

"Yeah. God's not the only one who can get all mysterious," you purr, hands descending toward his ankles, reaching the denim rumpled up at the tops of his boots. Dean clearly has no clue what you're about to do. That makes you even more turned on by all of this. "You know, at church, there's this whole thing about foot washing. It can be a really... religious experience."

His luscious mouth drops open as your hands start to inch beneath the bottom hems of his jeans. "Are you saying you want..."

 _Yes. He is finally taking the hint_ , you think. "Mmmm-hmmm."

The way his face and body are reacting as you slowly, sensuously, pull his shoes off of his feet is just the goddamn cutest thing. "Oh. Kay. Um—should I get a, uh... bucket of water or something?"

 _Fucking adorable_. "No need, gorgeous," you assure him. By now both of his boots are off; you push them to the side, then start caressing his feet through his socks, loving the feel of the damp cloth against your hands, the scent of his sweat seeping into your lungs, sending a wet current of lust straight to your tongue. "Pretty sure my mouth is watering enough to get the job done."

That fucks him up. " _Holy_..."

"Every inch of you is holy, Dean. You know—from the moment we met, I've been wanting to taste you all over," you shamelessly confess as your fingers curl under the tops of his socks. "But I'll start down here. Where I belong. Down on my knees, worshiping a fucking god."

His mouth is still hanging wide open, but Dean is too mind-blown to talk.

You use your hands as well as teeth to tug the socks off of his feet, tongue flicking out against the cloth to steal a taste of tangy salt. "Mmmmm," you moan in pleasure once his beautiful feet are finally bare to the open air. Right now they look like the most stunning thing you've ever fucking seen. " _God_ , I just want you to subjugate me completely with these sexy feet, Dean. While I kiss and lick and suck them clean."

A groan escapes his throat as you take one big toe in each hand, clutched between thumb and forefinger, cradling them in a worshipful grip as you bring them slowly toward your lips.

You blink reverently up at your king, full of limitless love for him. "May I please?"

Dean just nods, eagerly—can't speak—possibly forgot how to breathe.

And the sensation of your hot, hungering mouth devouring his feet definitely doesn't help any. You don't doubt that there are other girls who have done this to Dean before. Who have wanted to worship literally every inch of him, head to toe, to spend eternity kneeling before him on the floor as his whore. But never quite like this, you're sure. Your tongue traces each arch like a wet brush sweeping across a masterpiece of art, lavishes every last ridge and curve with the adoration of a lifelong admirer of classical sculpture. It shouldn't be possible, really, but Dean's lovely feet smell and taste just as good as they look, if not better. In all your damn life, you have never been wetter. You could seriously feast on them forever.

When he speaks up, soon enough, the sound of his husky voice—along with the way his feet are already so thoroughly feeding your other senses—is so hot that you start seeing stars. "You, uh... you always had a thing for feet, sweetheart?"

You shake your head. "Never. Foot stuff isn't my thing. At all." It must be hard for him to believe, no doubt, now that you've taken all ten of his perfect toes, one or more at a time, deep in your loving mouth. But you need him to know what you're really about. "You know, Dean—this isn't just about some kink. This is about servicing you like the divinely gorgeous king you are."

"Mmm. You know..." he murmurs as one of his hands reaches into his crotch, "having a pretty girl stroking my ego like that gets me really damn hard."

"Yeah? Well, everything about you gets me so fucking wet," you respond, soaking heat swelling up in your cunt. "Like the smell and the taste of your sweat."

" _Shit_..." his breath releases in a hiss as he paws at his dick. "Babe, can—can you do this naked?"

"I can do anything you want me to."

"Fuck. Thank you."

You're already busy doing his bidding, keeping one or both of his feet in your mouth all the while as you strip off your clothing. "Oh, you don't owe me anything, Dean. Definitely not gratitude. I should be thanking you for so beautifully existing. For allowing me the privilege of kneeling at your perfect feet. Worshiping you as my god... my king... my everything."

"Well, um— _ugh_ —you are very fucking welcome," he says, breath having hitched in his throat when you had slid your tongue into the sweaty space between two of his toes. "Can you uh... stand up for me, baby? Just for a second?"

"Mm-hmm," you hum, humbled and flattered that this absolute Adonis apparently wants to take a look at you, now that you're fully naked.

He looks even more gorgeous now that he's looking at you, as if that's even possible. " _God_ , you are beautiful."

You can feel yourself blushing, a rosy-cheeked schoolgirl, giddy to get with the heartthrob she's always been crushing on. "Look who's talking."

"Yeah, I guess we're both pretty good at being goodlooking," he quips adorably, following it with a pussy-soaking wink. What he says next makes him sound like a rosy-cheeked schoolboy, and it's so fucking precious that it's super hot. "Do you want... uh, should I also take my clothes off?"

 _Ugh, you love him so goddamn much._  "I want whatever you want."

"Yeah, I want," he mumbles breathlessly, mostly just to himself. He doesn't need to ask for you to know that he would love to have your help. In a matter of seconds, amidst a mess of scrunched fabric and frantic hands, soon enough the god before you is undressed.

Your heart stops all over again at the sight of him like this. You've truly never felt so blessed.

"Fuck, Dean..." you breathe as you instinctively drop back down on your knees. "Your body is even more beautiful than I'd dreamed. Please let me worship every perfect inch of it once I'm done servicing your feet?"

" _Hell_  yes, baby."

"Mmm. Hell never sounded so heavenly," you purr as you press your lips into his soles, worshiping them with a series of open-mouthed kisses, savoring the salt and the musk, inhaling long and deep. "Never tasted so sweet. I could just live and die beneath these luscious feet."

And you go on like that, living and dying a hundred times over on this one fine morning. It takes a whole lot of convincing, begging and pleading, for Dean to finally apply a little pressure to your face the way you so desperately need. To start really subjugating, smothering and suffocating you as his absolute foot slave, stepping all over your slobbery subservient face, shoving five toes at once deep down your throat. He felt kind of shitty about it at first, you could tell—since you've gathered that he sees you differently from most other girls, sort of sacred and special—but still, Dean is a natural dominant, and you were born into this world to submit to him; you both know it well. Before the morning's done, you show him that even if something feels a little sinful on the surface, still deep down it can be sacred, pure as heaven even when,  _especially_  when, it feels dirty as hell. You spend the morning showing him what words could never tell.

And you know Dean understands hours later when he's sweetly cradling your face in his hands, timidly leaning in for a kiss, then passionately deepening it, moaning at his own distinct flavor all over your lips, indulging in a taste of himself. His fucking flawless, divine, delicious self. Dean will never outright admit that he's actually perfect—hates himself too much to ever accept what he is—but if anyone had asked him in that instant, it would've been pretty damn hard to deny it.

You're both all smiles by the time you're finally done, beaming beneath the high noon sun, basking in the sweet light that's streaming through the motel windows, though the light that you've ignited in each other is much brighter, you both know. You've spent most of your time with Dean down at his feet, naturally. But you're also deeply in love with the rest of his body. And his heroic heart, his soldier's soul. Today you let all that love show.  _Maybe even felt a little in return_... you're not sure, but it widens your smile and makes life worthwhile to even dare think so. 

And yet lying here now, your head against his chest, palm resting on his heart, feeling it beat beneath your hand... for a sad fraction of a second, you almost wish that none of this had happened. Knowing now just how much more it will hurt to let him go.

But that's not how faith works. Dean is a living, breathing miracle on earth; you've been blessed enough to be with him one morning, yet for all that it was worth, the morning has to end... but the faith that you've found with each other doesn't. You can't just have faith for as long as you are lying here beside him, for as long as this sweet miracle is happening. You have to keep it once the miracle is done. Carry on long after he's gone.

And you know you will. You both will. You'll be strong. Dean Winchester, more than anyone, knows how to carry on. So now that he has stepped into your life, set foot into your world, become the sun around which it revolves... until your dying day and ever afterward, with him your guiding light, you can never go wrong.

That's why you have peace. Just as you told Dean earlier today—no matter what happens, no matter when, in life and death... you are okay.  _God really does work in mysterious ways_ , you think later that afternoon, as you caress Dean's precious face one final time before saying goodbye to him. And with faith, every mystery is just a miracle waiting to happen.

Dean is your faith. You hope he knows it now, in case it means a thing to him. Your mystery, your miracle... your god, your king... your world, the sun around which it will always turn. Your everything.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love love love kudos and comments!!! Thank you so much and please keep them coming <3
> 
> Also, I'm just shamelessly going to mention the other fic that I recently started posting, for anyone who hasn't seen it yet and might be interested — the title is "Deans Do Come True" and it's about living out the fantasy of multiple versions of Dean all ganging up at once to fuck you :P


	13. (S01E13) Pressing Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 13 ("Route 666")*
> 
> *In which you are Cassie Robinson*
> 
> There's a reason why Dean fell in love with you so hard, so fast.
> 
> Maybe there are a lot of reasons. But one is the fact that you've always been fucking obsessed with his dirtiest, most delicious body part. And that he loves the way you show it. 
> 
> You know it better than anyone: the quickest way to Dean Winchester's heart... is up his ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As stated in the summary, the focus of this chapter is Dean Winchester's fucking delicious ass :P
> 
> Most of it consists of flashbacks. For anyone not really into rimming, some parts of this chapter feature other kinds of smut, and fluff, so may still be worth reading — especially if you like the idea of imagining being Cassie Robinson, Dean's 'first love' and all that. 
> 
> I had so much fun writing this scene!! Hope you enjoy the read :)

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 13 ("Route 666")***

***In which you are Cassie Robinson***

 

****

 

Seeing you again was the last thing Dean needed.

And yet it's  _everything_ he needs, damn it. That's what you've always been. The one thing that hit him in ways no one else ever did—it's something he hates to admit, but will never forget. The love that lit him up inside, made him come alive only to knock him dead. 

"I'll say this for her," Sam says, interrupting Dean's distant train of thought, watching in his periphery as his big brother absentmindedly adjusts his tie. The Winchesters are suiting up next to each other in front of a motel room mirror. "She's fearless."

 _She sure fucking is._  Dean just hums quietly in response. "Mm-hmm."

"Bet she kicked your ass a couple of times," Sam quips.

 _Kicked? As if. More like kissed... and licked... a couple hundred times a minute..._ Dean tries not to let his mind wander too far down that delicious dirty road, but it's a struggle not to reminisce. To lose himself remembering the feeling of your soft, sweet tongue and luscious, loving lips. How you worked such filthy, fantastic, freaky fucking magic all over his ass with that mind-blowing mouth...

He knows better than to say that kind of shit aloud. It would just get Sammy all riled up.  _And jealous, no doubt._ He just casts his brother a quick glance before looking back in the mirror, trying to focus on checking himself out.

But Sammy isn't done, damn it. "What's interesting is you guys never really look at each other at the same time. You look at her when she's not looking, she checks you out when you look away. It's just a... just an interesting observation," he remarks with a shit-eating grin, "in a—you know... observationally interesting way."

 _Ugh, fuck this_. Dean shoots the younger Winchester an unforgiving glare. "You think we might have more pressing issues here?" 

Honestly, though, he can't think of anything more fucking pressing than the way your lips would press against his asshole in a long, lingering kiss every time you rimmed him— _which was really fucking often_ —like your life depended on it, as your slick talented tongue slid deeper into him than anything had ever been...

Sam snickers. _The smug little bastard._  "Hey, if I'm hitting a nerve..."

And now all Dean can think about is how you'd always hit what must’ve been a million nerves— _every damn nerve he had and more, with that glorious God-given tongue of yours..._

If he keeps reminiscing like this, he'll be done for. Forces himself to think about something,  _anything_ , other than you as he turns toward the door, swallowing down the puddle of drool, the thick pool of desire that has gathered in his throat. He's so damn thirsty it feels like he's gonna choke.

"Let's go," he urges his brother, trying to hide how he's dying inside. It won't work, though. Sam already knows.

And as Dean plops his ass down in Baby, he can't help but release a breathy groan, imagining now that he's sitting down on your beautiful face instead of this smooth leather seat, remembering the way you'd always beg for him to smother you beneath his cheeks...

"You okay there, Dean?" his brother asks him mockingly. "Something's got you moaning like a bitch in heat."

"Shut it, dumbass," the elder Winchester snaps, too distracted to come up with much of a comeback. He shoves and twists the keys, igniting the Impala's engine, the sudden vibration causing him to squirm even more awkwardly in his seat. "You're the bitch in heat, you—bitch in... heat..."

The whole drive long, he tries to keep his focus on the road ahead. But he can't stop his wayward mind from wandering, remembering the day when you'd first met...

 

_***************_

 

All it took was a look.

One look to know that you two were fated to fucking fuck each other up. You gravitated toward each other as the earth beneath you shook, unable to resist the pull, already knowing you'd give anything to feel something so powerful, no matter what it took. Every cell in your body screamed  _fuck_. Every beat of your heart knew that you would fuck  _hard_ , ravaging fast and rough, as if you could hope to stop once you had both had enough. As if that could stop it from turning to love.

You first collided in a college library, of all places. The tamest spot on campus. Till Dean Winchester walked into it. Both of you remember in such vivid detail how it felt when you first met; the wild fire had burned you so hard from the start that you'd never forget. Eyes locking through the shelves, fate sealed from that first look, succumbing so completely to it, instantly surrendering yourselves, then teasing and tempting each other for a minute, stealing glimpses through the cracks of space between the stacks of books. The two of you made your way through the maze, each following the other's partly hidden gaze, until you reached the most secluded corner of the room, finally crossing paths then with each other in full view. By the time he dove in and pressed his sturdy body into yours, shoved up against a wall stacked high with hardcover classics, you were so already his. Needed no words before he claimed your lips and your whole soul with just one kiss.

He was inside of you before you even knew it. And you were pretty sure you came the very second that he entered, then again before your first was even done as he seamlessly fucked you through it. You didn't even need a name to scream, as you trembled in bliss beneath this gorgeous god of a man, because the kiss had never ended from the moment it began. You moaned loudly into his mouth and just wanted to drown, to devour every inch of him and savor the divine, delicious flavor as you drink him down.

As soon as he had drained himself inside of you, hips halting and standing still for a moment before pulling back a bit, massive cock slowly sliding out of your soaking wet slit, only then did you finally pull off of his perfect lips and break the kiss. But it was just to sink down to your knees in front of him and start kissing something even more fucking scrumptious. After a slew of sloppy, passionate kisses all over his pulsating length, you gazed up into his flawless face as you gaped your mouth wide to take in the most heavenly thing that you would ever fucking taste. His own jaw dropped open at the sight and feel of it, and you could never have imagined anything hotter than the thought of what you were about to do to him, and how much he would love it. 

You gripped onto his hips and pulled him in until the wet head of his dick was buried firm and deep in the back of your throat. And then you let your muscles tighten and contract around his throbbing meat to squeeze out every lingering drop of his load, worshipful eyes never once leaving his as you milked all the come from his sweet cock and eagerly swallowed. He let out a deep, gravelly groan, volume matching your own as you moaned at the taste of him filling your throat, hoping that the thrumming of your vocal cords would please him even more, because by this point your entire life's purpose was just this man's pleasure.

A few seconds later, once his grunts and groans had faded out into a rhythm of raspy, ragged breathing, you both suddenly heard an unfamiliar female voice from somewhere close behind him. "May I help you, sir?"

" _Shit..._!" he hissed, dick slipping out of your mouth as he quickly swiveled in place to face the unexpected guest. There was a book cart just behind him—or just in front of him, now that he'd turned around—filled up with thick textbooks, enough to obstruct his body from the hips down. Your first fuck had happened so quickly that he hadn't bothered to take off of his shirt, so he appeared clothed to the stranger. And for your part, kneeling back here, you were conveniently invisible to her.

You couldn't see, but she had to be a middle-aged librarian, you were sure. She repeated her address, in response to his open-mouthed silence. "Sir...?"

He choked out an uncomfortable chuckle. "No, I'm—I'm good, thanks."

Meanwhile you were absolutely mesmerized by the bare skin of the firm, muscular ass that had now ended up right in front of your face... 

"Are you sure?" the librarian asked. "I'd be happy to..."

He insisted, adorably oblivious to what you were about to do. "Thanks, but it's really— _holy fucking fuuuck_!"

And hearing those words out of his mouth was so damn cute that you somehow managed a smile even when your lips were locked around his hole, tongue already venturing into the tight ring of muscle. The librarian took the hint just then and quickly fled the scene.

That was the first time you rimmed Dean, burying your face in his crack to kiss and lick and worship his beautiful, perfect ass. But both of you knew that it definitely wouldn't be the last.

 

***************

 

"Just... relax..."

You murmured the words into Dean's dewy skin as you kneaded and massaged his sculpted cheeks, dropping tender kisses all over them.

"I am," he said, though his voice quivered just like the rest of him, here in your college dorm room with his godlike body spread out naked, lying on his stomach in your unmade bed. Part of his nervousness was probably due to the fact that your roommate might just stumble in any minute. You were supposed to wait to fuck till you got back to Dean's motel room, or at least to the Impala, but as you'd told him just a few minutes ago, he looked so fucking delicious and you were so fucking hungry for him, damn it.

"Don't lie to me, baby," you urged him, more of a plea than an order, really. Though you'd always been a strong and independent woman, your urges around Dean were all just shameless service and submission. "You're tense. Not sure why—you know this has to be, like, the twentieth time I'm doing this..."

Twenty wasn't nearly enough, but considering that you had only known Dean for three days by this point, you were making good progress. You loved literally every inch of his body, having tasted and worshiped them all. But nothing compared to his asshole. The flavor and the scent and the feel of servicing the single filthiest, most intimate, most sinful and most sacred spot on Dean Winchester's body... it was just so exquisitely  _perfect_. You were fucking obsessed.

"Yeah, it's just..." Dean sighed as your teeth scraped against one of his cheeks in a sweet, gentle bite. "I dunno, Cassie. You just always make me—kind of... nervous, I guess."

"Nervous?" you echoed, so enamored by the sound of his voice in this moment, uncharacteristically soft, even a little sheepish. "What the hell for? Dean, you do know that you're fucking perfect?"

"Hmph," he just huffed out a muffled snort into your pillow. He would never admit his own perfection; you should've known.

"Besides, you never really seemed nervous before..." you pointed out as you continued easing all the tension from his backside with your loving hands and mouth.

"Yeah. Guess I was just hiding it better."

 _Ugh_ —with him suddenly sounding so precious, so pure, you weren't sure how much longer you could hold yourself together. "You should never have to hide anything from me, Dean."

"I know. I don't want to." His voice was drifting off into a sort of hazy state as you began gently tugging his ass cheeks apart, making just enough space for your face. "And honestly, that's... well, it's kinda what scares me."

 _Well, fuck_ —whatever Dean meant, the last thing you wanted was for shit between you to get scary. Not yet, at least. You were already drop-dead terrified of just how much you loved this guy.  _But to dare to think, for so much as a second, that there might be similar feelings on his end_... the thought freaked you out, more than your sanity could stand.

"Okay. Well, I don't want you to be scared, baby. So we'll just... keep it light," you whispered as you brought your face closer into him, inhaling his incredible scent, grabbing onto the globes of his ass firm and tight. "Nothing heavy, nothing scary. Right?"

"Mm. Right," he weakly replied, taking in a deep breath. You could hear as Dean willed himself to shift gear, the weakness in his voice suddenly vanishing with the words he spoke next. "You know something, babe—talking dirty is a damn good way to keep shit light."

"Yeah? Well, this dirty bitch is always down for that," you purred, smiling sinfully as you brushed the tip of your nose against his puckered hole, breathing in deep to fill your senses completely with the sweet, sweaty heat from his ass. "Mmmmn. Smell so good, Dean. So fucking sexy. Ugh, I could  _die_  getting high on just sniffing your ass crack."

"Damn girl. Guess you're a real crack whore, huh?" he answered playfully, ass lifting upward ever so slightly, instincts in sync with yours as your snout burrowed more deeply into him. "I would say I taste even better, but guess you already know that."

"Mm-hmm," you hummed, not wasting a second then as his dirty talk spurred you on, pressing your wet lips against his perfect little rosebud, twirling your tongue over the pink flesh to taste and to please him, moaning in bliss as you felt the tight, hot sphincter twitching and squeezing. "Ohh God, baby—feels like this sweet ass is kissing me back..."

You could practically hear Dean lick his lips and curl them up into a smirk. "You like that?"

" _Fuck_ yeah," you panted before shutting yourself up, mashing your mouth into his luscious ass again.

"Mmmm. Yes, right there, sweetheart," he groaned, hips bucking against the mattress, grinding his stiff dick into the surface, breathing coming heavy and unsteady, loud and hard. "Good  _God_... fuck, Cass—fucking love feeling those perfect lips slurping all over my ass..."

Nothing has ever turned you on more than the sound of that. "So damn delicious, Dean. Can't wait to get this tongue in nice and deep. You fucking ready?"

"Holy— _yesss_..."

"Yeah. Open up for me, gorgeous," you pleaded, planting one last slobbery kiss on his precious opening, then spewing out some filthy-worded promises just before diving in. "This dirty mouth is gonna clean you out. Gonna devour and worship this perfect pink hole, sweet and slow, hard and fast. Gonna fucking make love to your ass."

 _...'make love to your ass'? Maybe you shouldn't have called it that_ , you thought for a split second, once it was too late, the words having slipped past your lips already.  _Did that run the risk of sounding heavy? Scary? But lovemaking shouldn't have to mean something serious when it's just an act of your mouth on his ass..._ In any event, the thought didn't last long. Once you set to work on him, there could be no denying the serious love behind every worshipful move, every sweet stroke and sweep, every push hard and deep, of your passionate tongue. 

You loved Dean. Already knew you always would. And it felt so fucking right, so fucking good, even when you let yourself imagine the most terrifying thing— _that maybe he wanted you to love him, maybe even sort of had some loving feelings for you, too..._ for just a second, you weren't scared then as you dared to dream that it just might be true.

 

***************

 

In the week and a half ever since you'd met Dean, you'd spent most of that time begging for the same thing. All day every day. And you were gonna beg again tonight, for what would probably be the thousandth time. A thousand times, a million, even an infinite amount of this would never be enough.  _Fuck, you were so in love._

"Sit on my face," you pleaded desperately as soon as he strode into the motel room, before he had even shut the door behind him. It felt like hours since you'd been sitting here waiting. It had probably only been five minutes, really. " _Please_ , Dean. Fucking suffocate me. Your sweet ass is all I ever want to breathe."

"Unph—" he gasped as you dove in to crash against his chiseled jaw in a rough kiss, eager hands framing his beautiful head, lips not once leaving his as you dragged him with you toward the bed. Once your mouth dropped to his neck as you pulled him down on top of you, longing to sink into the mattress beneath the full weight of his body, Dean caught his breath, finally managing to speak. "Ugh  _shit_ —I, uh... I haven't even showered yet today, baby..."

"Mmmm," you moaned shamelessly, grappling with his slightly sweaty shirt to yank it off of him, then reaching for his jeans. "Tasty."

" _God_ , Cassie..." he echoed your moan, tugging at your top till it came off as quickly as his own. "You are so fucking nasty..."

"You love it, baby," you teased, dripping with thirst as Dean swiftly stripped off the rest of his clothes, and then yours, wasting no time getting into position, straddling your face, his ass hovering inches above your mouth, framing your head between his knees. Your tongue hung loosely over your lower lip, hungry and aching to please. "Know you love it. Just as much as I do."

"Yeah, it's true. I... uhh..." Dean sighed with a breathless, breathtaking smile as he lowered himself slowly onto your face. And just like every time he did, for both of you, it felt like all the stars in all the world aligned as he fell into place. More so this time than ever before, for some reason; as his evergreen gaze locked on yours, you knew he felt it, too. That feeling was what made his eyes widen and deepen in this moment, bright and unblinking, what made these unthinking words suddenly spill from his beloved lips. The words that were destined to ruin you, through and through. "...I think I love you."

Your heart promptly forgot how to beat. You briefly shut your eyes, breaking his gaze, because the way Dean looked at you now was too much for you to take. Tried staring instead at his cock, which was always just as gorgeous as his face, but without the risk of heartbreak. Fixing your eyes on the dangerously big, hard dick towering tall and proud over your head somehow felt... safe. So you just forced yourself to focus on this perfect piece of meat. 

Though you wished it didn't have to be, you knew that it was your turn now to speak. "Dean..." his name escaped your lips, a desperate plea. "You shouldn't say shit you don't mean."

His gaze pierced into you so deep that, even when you wouldn't dare to make eye contact, still you could see. Dean was clearly not about to make this easy. "No, really..."

 _Ugh._ Well, if the motherfucker was seriously about to let this happen here and now, dumb enough to be in  _this_  position when he finally professed his love—a love that you knew sure as hell couldn't be real, no matter what he thought he might feel... then, well, you were not about to let him get away with it.

You looked up as Dean licked his stupidly beautiful bottom lip. "Really, it's— _ohhhhh holy_ —"

Before he could've even attempted to finish that sentence, you had begun working your magic, your hands having reached up to grab a firm hold of his hips, pulling his sweet hole squarely down onto your puckered lips, in the same instant shoving your tongue deep inside it. 

Dean's entire body tightened as his breath halted and hitched. "...son of a— _bitch_..."

You slid your tongue out briefly to speak, wet lips brushing against the tender skin around his entrance as you did. "See? You can't even think straight when I'm worshiping your perfect ass like this."

"Mmmph..." he grunted, impulsively thrusting his hips— _giving in to his primal urge to ride your face for just a few seconds, unable to resist..._  Just a few precious seconds, though; that was it. There was an animal inside of him, a goddamn beast that you always loved to unleash, but Dean's urge to be human was even stronger in this moment. "Shut up, bitch. Get that filthy face up here and gimme a kiss."

He shifted, reaching down to lift you up toward him, cradling the back of your head in one hand as his other arm wound down under your shoulder, palm pressing firm against the steep curve of your spine, probably not even knowing that the passion burning behind his every motion was utterly fucking you over, sighing as your limbs entwined, anchoring your body to his.

The best thing about embracing Dean in this position was that his massive dick was rubbing all over your clit. You lost yourself in the divine sensation of it, and in the feel and taste of him as he devoured your mouth in a ravenous kiss, licking and sucking his own flavor out of it, both of you moaning in bliss as you let yourselves drown.

 _But drowning... drowning right now would be too real, too deep._ Before shit could get scary and heavy, you had to lighten it again by talking dirty. Reluctant though you were to break the kiss, you willed yourself to pause and pull off of his mouth, making him meet your gaze, your flirty grin playfully teasing him for how much he got off on his own taste, sucking your face after you ate his ass out. "Who's the nasty one now."

Dean nibbled at your lower lip with a fierce little growl. "You and me both, baby," he said, losing himself in your eyes just then, in a way that made you feel so safe it was dangerous. "Us."

You could see his bright emerald eyes darken a bit, silently letting you know that this shit scared him, too. You both knew; you could never be  _us_.

He whipped out a little more dirty talk, a desperate effort to pretend shit wasn't serious. "Besides—not my fault I'm so fucking delicious. Especially off of these beautiful ass-kissing lips."

"Mmm," you hummed into his mouth as he dove in to suck your face again, rendering you briefly speechless. But you couldn't keep up the silence once your loving lips finally parted from his. Even if it ran the risk of screwing shit up, just a little bit, you had to say this. "Yours is the only ass I'd ever kiss, Dean. Promise."

"Damn fucking straight it is," he said with a lighthearted smile, dumb enough to think you couldn't see that his doomed heart was dark and heavy. As if you couldn't tell that he was trying not to cry. Didn't notice the glimmer in the sea of green, the gleam of what he'd never dare to dream, the gloss of hard-fought tears upon his eyes. Dean's dirty mouth may be the bed of lies behind which he could always hide—but his eyes, those goddamned glorious green eyes, so fucking flawless, pure and powerful and precious as an unspeakable, unbreakable promise... those eyes of his were never anything but honest. 

You dared to read them now, and saw the truth. Dean really thought he loved you. Wanted to. But he would learn soon enough, and then over and over again throughout his life, all the way down the road ahead—it never mattered what he wanted.

"You know, Cassie..." he murmured later that night when you lay naked and entwined in bed, "you're right about that thing I said. I didn't mean it."

You were dumb enough just then to think that maybe he was finally being honest with himself. Just maybe. "Yeah, I know, Dean."

He proved you wrong pretty damn quickly. "No. You don't, baby. 'Cause what I mean..."

It was impossible for you then not to meet his gaze as he finished his sentence. Drowning for a moment in that gleaming sea of green, so deep, so full of secrets that you knew he'd always keep. The tear that almost fell then was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. But that was just it—that was all it was.  _Almost_. So close to falling, to come into being... so close. Yet not close enough to exist.

"... is that I don't just think I love you," Dean whispered the words, the lie that came so close to almost being honest, maybe even true. "Fucking  _know_ I do."

 

***************

 

It was the end of the two weeks. The end of everything. You really should've been spending all of this precious time fucking. But no; instead, you were fucking fighting, ripping hearts rather than clothes to shreds, shouting at each other from across the room until it killed both of you dead. Again.

"But you  _don't_ , Dean!" you screamed.

" _Damn it_ , Cassie, how—how the hell is it that you still don't believe me? I'm laying it all out there, every damn thing. Something you know I've never done, with  _anyone_ , and it's... it's terrifying," he confessed, beyond pissed off. Anger was always a damn good look on him, you thought. It really sucked that the rage radiating from his skin never failed to make Dean even more insufferably hot. "So what gives you the fucking right to tell me what I'm feeling?"

You had to look away from him, to stop the slut inside you from moaning and squealing.  _Why did she always rear her head at the most inconvenient moments?_  You forced yourself to focus on the argument, answer his question. "It's not about a  _right_ , Dean. I just... I just  _know_  you. Better than you do."

Dean snorted, resorting to sarcasm because he liked to think it never failed him. "Well, that—now that's just great. Two fucking weeks and you've got me all figured out. Just look at you."

He had turned away as he said it, so now it was safe for you to look at him, where he shuffled off toward the far end of the room. "Look; laugh it off all you want. It's still true."

"You're a stuck up selfish  _bitch_ , you know that?" he rasped, suddenly facing you again. "God, just... sometimes I just  _hate_  you so much, more than—"

"More than what? More than you love me? 'Cause believe me—you don't, Dean. Never did," you told him, whipping out every last drop of confidence and self-assurance that you had, every last one of your defenses, the strong fearless woman that you'd always been— _until him_ —still somewhere deep inside you, desperately reacting on instinct. "You just love the way I love you. That's it."

He paused. The pause lasted a beat too long. "What's the..."

"What's the difference? Wow, Dean," you huffed, having never felt so furious. "Are you fucking serious?"

"How should I know, when you go and finish every fucking sentence?"

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to pretend it was a gesture of sass rather than self-defense. "So you're telling me that's not what you were gonna say, just then?"

Dean took a few ferocious steps toward you, for no reason, far too busy fuming to see through your shameless pretense. "Would you even believe me, if I said it wasn't?"

"I'll believe it if it's true."

"If it's true for  _you_ ," he snapped, close enough now that you could see every twitch of his livid lips, wishing in vain that they didn't look so delicious. "It's never gonna matter, is it. What I say or do."

You hated it when he got so damn close while you were fighting. Made it that much harder to pretend that you weren't hopelessly, head over heels in love with him. "Dean. You matter more to me than anything. I just—have a hard time... believing..."

"Well, then let me make it easy on you, bitch. I just love the way you love me. Like you said. That's it," he spat, and though you knew that he was just angrily lashing out at you, still the inadequate, insecure little girl that you'd become in these past two weeks, ever since you had encountered the perfection of Dean Winchester, couldn't help but take every damn word as true.

And there was no way to prepare yourself for the soul-shattering effect his words would have on you. Even worse because it turned you on in all the ways your dignity should never have allowed it to.

Dean's words attacked without mercy. The beast in him unleashed. "Love the way you shove your tongue deep in my ass, beg me to sit on your face, smother and suffocate you while you slobber all over my dirty fucking hole like it's the best damn thing you'll ever taste. It's all you're good for. Being my desperate, pathetic, ass-worshiping whore. That's the only thing I love about you, babe. Okay? Now you happy? You finally believe me?"

You just stood there in silence for a few seconds, not sure which version of yourself would surface when you finally spoke. The proud queen or the pathetic little girl. It ended up being a bit of both. "Whoa. Um... I know I'm a real bitch, but right now you're—"

Now it was Dean's turn to cut you off mid-sentence. "Yeah, what. Go on, dish it out, sweetheart. An ass? Dick? Evil bastard?"

"...a monster."

"Monster, huh," he scoffed, a wicked laugh rolling off of his lips. "Classic. If only you knew the half of it."

"Dean, what—what does that even mean..."

"Fucking hell," he grumbled then beneath his breath, turning away slightly and lowering his head. "Guess I'll just tell you the whole goddamn truth. May as well."

The sudden shift in his expression scared you in this moment in a way that had nothing to do with love, or anything remotely close to that emotion.  _Wherever he was going with this, it was... something different._

"You don't believe me when I try to be honest about myself," Dean said, eyes dark and dangerous as they locked on yours again. "So let's see how well you take the truth about everything else."

 

***************

 

Needless to say, you hadn't taken it well. The love of your life telling you that he professionally pops ghosts had been quite frankly scary as hell.

But that was then. Now, such a damn long time later, for better or for worse—or honestly all for the better, of course—Dean is here in your bed, in your arms again. And you've both... changed. Grown, in ways that your old selves could never have imagined. 

You almost had another fight, last night, but then you saw the luscious twitch of his lips, fell deep into the sea of his evergreen eyes, and inevitably ended up impaling your whole body and soul on his big, beautiful, perfect dick.  _God_ , you had missed it. The two of you had missed fucking each other so much that, when you finally had it again, you didn't even try to pretend that it wasn't lovemaking.

And it was actually the first time that had happened. The first time neither of you needed to pretend. And now that you know just how perfect it felt, to give in to each other and yourselves, you wish it never had to end...

Your thoughts keep drifting to the past, and to the future that you'll never get to have with him. But you should know better than that. Should just treasure what you have, for as long as it lasts, savor the precious gift that is the present moment. 

Dean laughs softly, sweetly, at something you just said. You can feel his heart as it beats through the warm skin beneath your cheek, his chest rumbling with the smooth velvet vibrations of his voice now as he teases you for being the stuck up little bitch who would never believe him.

"Yeah. You know, I still am," you tell him, somewhat sadly, though you're smiling. "Can you blame me, Dean? It doesn't make any sense."

A little sigh slips through his nose. "Trust me, Cassie, I know the whole thing about monsters and shit sounds ridiculous—"

"No, I'm—I'm not talking about that. I mean you supposedly... loving me. I'll just never understand it," you admit, eyes staring off into the empty distance as your hand absentmindedly makes love to his chest, lingering on one of the perky nipples that you adore so much, loving how it tightens beneath your touch, fingers sweeping and stroking in a worshipful caress. "You are literally fucking  _perfect_ , Dean, and I'm just..."

His beautiful brow lifts up, just the slightest bit, as your voice trails off. "Just what?"

"God, I don't even know what I am. I mean—look, Dean," you breathe, shifting to prop yourself up on an elbow, letting yourself take in the sight of his flawless face, basking in the glow of it, soaking in just how much you will always love it. Always love him. "Till your fine ass walked into my life, I'd never really had an issue with my self-esteem. But now, I feel like—it's just... how could I even imagine deserving you? You're so far beyond anything I've ever fucking dreamed. Even more beautiful inside than out. Which shouldn't be possible, honestly."

He pauses before pulling you in closer to him, blessing the top of your head with a kiss. "Cassie, I... I get that you think I'm, like... flawless. Or whatever," he murmurs with a low, self-loathing chuckle, uncomfortable even just saying such a thing, let alone ever actually thinking it. "But baby, you have to believe me—I am  _so_  goddamn far from it. Promise."

"Bullshit."

He laughs lightly and kisses you again. "Well, if you think so damn highly of me," he says, placing his forefinger gently beneath your chin, tilting your face up then to look at him, "then why can't you respect the way I feel about you? What I see in you? In my eyes, you're worth so much more than I will ever be. I don't think perfection exists, but if it did... well, to me, you'd be it."

And in that moment, you can tell that—for what might be the first time—Dean's words are just as honest as his eyes.

You don't need words to reply. You lean in to embrace the sweet truth from his lips in a long, loving kiss, then soon enough start to descend, mouth dropping first to the subtle cleft in his chin, then to the tender skin just under it, tracing the faint shadow of scruff on his jawline before dipping down to his neck...

His breathing catches in his throat as you start kissing it, his half-hard cock bulging beneath the sheets against your skin, throbbing and stiffening by the second. A quiet curse slips past his lips in a sharp hiss. "Shit."

"Hmm?" you hum, lips curving up into a smirk as your tongue sets to work upon the hollow of his throat, lapping up stray drops of his sweat.

"I... um..." Dean grunts as your mouth shifts down toward the smooth planes of his chest, "dunno if I'm gonna last very long."

His cock suddenly feels harder than it's ever been, rubbing against a different part of your bare skin as your body keeps gliding lower and lower down on his. "Mmm. Promise I won't mind if this big cock starts leaking all over me, Dean."

" _Fuck_ ," he groans, precome already oozing out everywhere you touch, slicking both of you up. "Babe, I know I shouldn't blow my load too fast, but I'm kind of—I mean—you know, it's been a... uh—a long time since you... did... this..."

 _Oh, he's just too fun to tease._  "Did what, gorgeous?"

"Ugh,  _God_..." he gasps as you start sucking on his nipple, slobbering all over the luscious pink flesh in just the same way you had always done so often with his asshole. "You cheeky fucking bitch."

 _That's real cute_ , you think. "Cheeky, huh?"

"Mm-hmmm," Dean hums, biting down hard on his lip.

"Yeah, this dirty bitch is all about your fucking cheeks, baby," you purr, dropping kisses all over his rippling abs as you slide ever lower. "What was it you called me? Your... ass-worshiping whore?"

Your mouth is hovering just above his cock now, slowly skipping over it to go down even further, and he can't speak anymore.

Not that he needs to. And neither do you. Making love to Dean Winchester's divine, delicious ass is the only thing your mouth will ever need to do. Sure, there are some seriously pressing issues outside this bedroom that probably require your attention. There's a killer phantom truck thing that's been wreaking total havoc on your loved ones, and may soon come after you, and Dean's gonna have to fight that monster soon. There are more stupid fights to be had between you two; there's the terrifying fact that you just know, deep in your bones, that once Dean finally skips town this time, leaving you behind, then... you won't ever see him again. You hate that fact with every fiber of your being—but, unlike Dean, you're not about to lie to yourself, to desperately pretend it isn't true.

So yeah, there's all of that. But right now there's just his ass. Here in front of your face for the first time in ages, all ready and waiting and aching for you to dive in and devour and downright worship it like you were born to do. So right now, everything else can just go fuck itself—pressing your lips and tongue into this perfect fucking hole, the center of your world, your whole entire universe, the most sinfully sacred body part on this god of a man whom you will always love with all your heart...  _that_ is the most pressing issue.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else fucking obsessed with Dean's ass?? :P~~~
> 
> Whether you are or not, if you enjoyed any part of this scene, do bring on the kudos and comments please! :D
> 
> Thanks so much as always, love you guys <3


	14. (S01E14) That Kind of Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 14 ("Nightmare")*
> 
> *In which you are Alice Miller, the telekinetic kid's stepmother*
> 
> The holy father at your doorstep is a fucking god. You long to worship and serve him as your lord in heaven. It's time for your confession, but now that you've laid eyes on him, you both know that your sins are too filthy to ever be forgiven.
> 
> So you and Father Dean may as well just commit them, again and again.
> 
> Amen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you guys — I'm so sorry that I haven't updated in a while!! Real life has been keeping me busier lately, but I promise I work on my filthy Dean fics as often as I possibly can. I love writing them as much as you all love reading them, if not even more ;) Hope you enjoy this one!

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 14 ("Nightmare")***

***In which you are Alice Miller, the telekinetic kid's stepmother***

 

 

So, just last night, your husband died. You're not sure if that makes it better or worse—if that should make you feel guilty as hell, or not guilty at all, about the way you want to fall down on your knees before this drop-dead gorgeous priest who has just shown up at your door. To suck his cock nonstop for hours, be his dirty little whore.

 _Oh, stop it, Alice_ , you silently scold yourself as your mind runs wild with images of what he must be packing under his all-black attire, setting you on fire with desire. This is your first day as a widow. You are supposed to be mourning and honoring Jim's memory, not turning into some kind of shameless, sex-obsessed bitch.  _Priests are often sworn to celibacy anyway, you know. Just serve this holy father and his tall companion some coffee; don't even think about emptying the coffee pot into his lap, in hopes that it'll give him a reason to rip off those ridiculously conservative clothes_.

Then as the taller father goes to talk to Max, your freak stepson—leaving you and the bible-abiding hunk together all alone—you can no longer deny the shameless, sex-obsessed bitch that you have become. Pure lust is pumping through your blood, rattling your bones...

And then the fucker  _speaks_ , and you are done. "Ms. Miller, you have a lovely home," he says; it feels like each vibration of his velvet voice is violating the virginity of your ears. "How long have you lived here?"

The answer that you give out loud is just about five years. But the unspoken reply in your mind is a bit different, mirroring his compliment and the question he'd asked, inspired by your smutty thoughts:  _You have a lovely everything, Father. How long is your holy cock?_

You manage to keep your inner whore quiet for now, but she's dying to talk. You shudder in your seat, clamping your thighs closer together, trying hard to contain the rising heat.

Father Simmons—apparently that is his name—doesn't seem to have noticed. Or else he's just hiding it well, maintaining his focus. Focus on his line of questioning about your house, and on the mini hot dogs he keeps popping in his perfect little mouth. "The only problem with these old houses... I bet you have all kind of headaches."

 _I wish you would please give me a headache by brutally fucking my face._ You softly clear your throat to keep those dirty words at bay, trying to keep your tone steady and innocent, as if you're not a total slut. "Like what?"

"Well—weird leaks, electrical shortages... odd settling noises at night..." the father elaborates, slick tongue sliding over his lower lip after the words he says next, a tongue that you're desperate to taste. "That kind of thing."

You gulp and blink.  _That kind of thing? How about you punish me for being such a naughty little bitch while I kneel down before you and worship your dick, because you know, I've always had a dirty secret priest kink? How about_ that  _kind of thing?_

You blink again. "No, nothing like that. It's been perfect," you say.  _Kind of like your face. Your bright green eyes, your sweet pink mouth. And every other inch of you, no doubt._

"Huh," he murmurs, his luscious lips pursing slightly into a brief pensive pout. It hurts to have to fight the urge to just suck that expression right off of him. "May I use your restroom?"

_Of course, Father, you may use my face as your restroom._

_Well, fuck_ , your inner slut curses to herself— _yourself_ —you've never felt more ashamed in all your life than in the moment that filthy thought crosses your mind. But then again, there is no shame, now that you've become a shameless, sex-obsessed bitch.  _God, Alice, you really need to stop this..._

Pulling yourself together, or trying to at least, you tell the priest where the upstairs bathroom is. Before leaving, he pauses to take another mini cocktail sausage, flashing you a flirty little smile as he does. 

As for you... you're hungry for something a little less mini. Something motherfucking  _huge_. You're sure he knows it too: now that you've laid eyes on him, the only cocktail sausage you will ever want... is his.

 

***************

 

He's taking a hell of a long time in the restroom. And that's giving your inner slut all sorts of naughty thoughts. Making you want him even more, as you imagine him dropping his priest pants to free his enormous erection and start jerking off, fantasizing about God knows what as he pumps his huge, heavenly cock...

 _Or perhaps he's in trouble—perhaps he got lost_ , you think in a moment of brainless desperation. You grasp at that notion, because if it's true, then as the hostess of this house, that would give you a good excuse to go check up on him.  _Really_ , you tell yourself,  _you ought to_. It would be the hospitable thing to do.

Your feet begin climbing the stairs before you even know what's happening. It's as if some kind of spiritual force, some supernatural power more intense than gravity itself, compels you toward him. 

Reaching the second floor, you find the hallway empty, the bathroom door ajar and lights switched off; with furrowed brows and bated breath, you walk up toward the open door and peek in. He's nowhere to be seen. The slut inside you panics at the thought that maybe he has left the building...  _that—heaven forbid—maybe you've missed your chance with him..._

But then you pause, glimpsing a strange glimmer in your peripheral vision: a sudden flicker of neon green. It's coming from your bedroom, you realize as you cautiously cross the hallway toward the source of the glow. The door is cracked open, twin rays of lime-colored light visible through the sliver of space. You approach, anxious as you draw close, reaching for the doorknob, every move silent and slow...

And then the door swings open all of a sudden. 

 _Oh. There he fucking is. Of course it's him._ You stare stupidly, biting your tongue as you swallow.

"Ah—Ms. Miller," he greets you, flashing another effortlessly flirty smile, as if it's normal for a preacher to be such a ladykiller. "Hello."

The green light had apparently been beaming from some odd electromagnetic-looking contraption he's got in his hands, which he quickly shoves into the pocket of his pants. You have no idea what it is, but here in his godly gorgeous presence, you honestly couldn't care less.

You try, though bound to fail, to keep your shit together. "H-hello, Father..."

His eyes, just as luminous green as the rays from his handheld machine, fucking gleam as he watches your sanity falling to pieces before him. "Think I must've lost my way up here. It's so easy to just... get lost, from time to time, when our minds run wild with... wandering thoughts. Isn't it, dear."

 _Holy mother of all that has ever been sacred_ , you think, jaw falling open as an ocean of drool gathers in your mouth.  _What kind of sacrilegious sorcery is this wicked god of a man whipping out?_

"So what brings you upstairs, Ms. Miller?" he asks, tongue lurking and twirling behind his teeth in some kind of devilish dance. "Alice, you said your name was?"

It's a miracle that you manage to speak right now. A stuttering response slips from your thirsty mouth. "Y-yes..."

"Hm," he hums, his husky voice reverberating dangerously. "Well, Alice, if we're on a first-name basis—my name's Dean. But I bet you'd rather call me something else, wouldn't you. Keep calling me Father while I'm, you know... fucking the fear of God into you. Making you scream."

Those words off of his lips are straight out of your dirtiest dreams. The sounds that tumble off of yours now are somewhat less eloquent. "Ohhh my—h-holy  _fucking_..."

"What's that, slut?"

"Oh  _Godddd_..." you moan, knees buckling just as he reaches a hand toward your shoulder to steady you up, making matters even worse—then again, so much better, so much fucking  _wetter_ —with the hellish heat of his touch.

Dean's emerald eyes gleam again as he watches you practically dying.  _Oh, he likes to watch._  "Go on, tell me what you want. You godforsaken cunt."

By now your tongue is drowning in your own mouth, but you have to speak somehow. Have to obey his command. "Mmm-may... may I please worship at your altar, Father?"

His plump pink lips curl up into the tastiest, most twisted-looking smirk you've ever seen. "Hmm. Maybe once you've earned the privilege. But tell me, bitch... why are you still on your feet? That any way to worship me?" Those lips are closer to your ear now, every word from them a brutal tease. "Fall on your knees."

" _Fuuuck_..." you groan, the smutty sound from your mouth straight out of a porno, as you instantly hasten to do just that.

"Fuck?" Dean echoes, reaching down with one of his strong hands to frame your jaw, then grip your throat. "What a filthy little mouth you got. You goddamn slut."

 _How is it even possible for anyone on earth to be so hot_ , you wonder as his other hand lifts toward your lips, letting you suck on one of his thick fingers, his grasp on your neck tighter, stronger. Just loose enough for you to breathe and splutter desperate words. "F-forgive me, Father..."

"For what—for you have sinned? Oh, I'll show you sin, bitch," he ominously promises. "Give you even more sins to confess. Make you sin so damn dirty you ain't ever gonna be clean again."

You whimper in pleasure as he grabs a fistful of your hair and drags you with him, hauling you like a damn rag doll, crawling on all fours like a dog into the bedroom. Your own bedroom, your own bed— _the king bed in which, just last night, you'd still slept with your husband..._

But now Jim is dead. And instead of grieving the loss, you are on your knees before this flawless motherfucker of a priest, aching for nothing more than to suck his sweet cock. Moaning with need as you watch Dean sit his pretty ass on the edge of your bed, undoing his pants with one hand while the other is still firmly gripping your head... nothing else, living or dead, could matter less. Worshiping perfection like this is just all you've ever needed.

And when his massive dick is finally unleashed, bigger and more beautiful than it has any right to be... that shameless sex-obsessed bitch that you've been fighting to restrain all day is uncontrollably released. You have now become some kind of subhuman whore, some bottom-feeding beast.

You don't even ask permission for the right to mash your mouth into his meat—you dive in hungrily. His cock is all you'll ever want to eat. Your audacity in pouncing on the holy grail is not to be forgiven, though; it earns you a sharp slap across the cheek. And  _fuck_ , if punishment is gonna be so sweet, then you'd transgress again in a heartbeat. If it means more exquisite pain from Dean... then yes, without a doubt, devouring this holy dick is a mistake you'll never hesitate to make.

His blazing eyes burn holes into your soul as he watches you kissing and slurping all over his thick throbbing shaft. The mind-blowing girth of his dick stretches you out as you wrap your lips around just the first few inches of him, your ravenous jaw practically unhinged, gaping open wide enough to break. 

"Greedy little skank. Look at you, slobbering all over my dick after I smacked your fucking face," he scoffs. "You that desperate for a taste? Is that how much you love sucking this holy fucking cock?"

You cry out in bliss as he yanks your head off of his dick to answer him. " _Yes_ , Father! Oh God..."

"Hmm. Shouldn't use the Lord's name in vain, whore," Dean scolds as he pushes your face back in place, shoving you down to suck in more of him than before. "Guess I'd better gag that filthy mouth of yours."

A stifled groan resounds throughout your throat and mouth, as your father's ruthless hands force you further and further down.

He snickers wickedly as he watches you choke. "There we go. Take it in deep, slut. All the way down that thirsty whore throat."

The pain and pleasure, agony and ecstasy, are driving you beyond crazy. Your snout is now smashed into the base of his cock, smothered in the dizzying scent of his sweat and musk, bottom lip mushed into his heavy balls as his entire length fills you up. Wet heat is building in your core, liquid flames soaking and burning up your cunt. You are so ready to die like this, suffocating in his crotch and gagging on his gorgeous cock, if this is what he wants.

It's not. Not yet, at least. He has another use in mind now for your slutty little mouth, apparently.

Dean shifts backward a bit on the edge of the bed, and then pulls your skull off of his dick so fast that you don't even have time to gasp before he suddenly shoves your whole face straight into his ass.

You have never done this before, not for your husband or for any other man. But this is not a man before you now. This is a fucking  _god_. It is an honor and a privilege to let him wipe his flawless ass all over your pathetic, worthless mouth.

"Never done this before, have you, whore," he taunts as he starts swiping your snout side to side, up and down, then pushing you back deep into his crack, giving you everything you never even knew you'd want. "I could tell. Sweet little angel seemed so fucking shocked. How do you like this holy ass, huh? Go on, show Father some love with that filthy wet tongue. Yeah, that tongue in my hole is your fucking confession. Bet you love it as much as my cock."

You absolutely fucking do.  _Holy fucking fuck._

" _Shit_..." he hisses, hips bucking up into your lips as you ravenously eat him out. "God, I love feeling that tongue squirming deep in my ass. Dirty bitch. Bet you're gonna burn in hell for this. What'd'ya have to say for that, you shameless piece of shit? This fucking worth it?"

He tugs you away from his crack, just a bit, sliding your tongue out of his sphincter so that you can give him your wholehearted answer. "Yes,  _yes_ , Father—I would sell my soul, just to suck your gorgeous cock and lick this perfect hole..."

"Mmmm, damn straight," Dean grunts, shutting you up again as he wipes his sweet ass even harder and faster all over your face. "Damnation's what you want. Ain't it, you desperate fucking cunt."

Words escape from your lips between licking and sucking all over his sweaty pink pucker. "Ugh—God—yesssssrmphh..."

He clearly loves how much you love it. "That ass taste good, bitch?"

"Mmmmmphh hmphhhhh..." you slobber straight into his crack. There are no words for how insanely good he tastes. You just want to suffocate in this man's ass, to feel his sacred sweat and filth spread all over your godforsaken face...

And he wants the same damn thing, no doubt. It's  _perfect_. "Yeah, that's it, fucking suck it. Eat it out. Clean your father's holy asshole with your goddamned dirty mouth."

Dean keeps spouting out deliciously degrading dirty talk. You're getting off so hard on everything that's happening. Father Simmons preaching filth like it's a fucking sermon, grabbing messy fistfuls of your hair to keep rubbing your snout in his crack as his other fist pumps up and down his huge cock.

"God, look at that—worshiping my ass so good and hard with that hot little tongue. Gonna make me fucking come," he groans. "You want it, slut? Go on, beg for it. On your knees. Beg and plead for this sweet come all over your face, bitch. Pray for the fucking privilege. Pray to me."

He pulls you off again, slightly, so you can breathe and speak. "Please, Father...  _please_ , my divine king, my lord, God in heaven..."

"Ugh, holy shit..." Dean throws his head back briefly, releasing a deep moan before staring back down at you, looking at you like the filthy little plaything that you are, like a pathetic piece of shit. "God in heaven, huh? You talkin' to me, bitch?"

"Yes, your holiness," you devotedly confess, pressing deep French kisses all over the sacred entrance to his ass. "You are so beautiful, so powerful, so fucking perfect. You exist to be serviced and worshiped."

"Mmmph, hell yes—such a kinky little cock-sucking, ass-worshiping slut," he grunts, clenching the ring of muscle so his tasty hole tightens around your plunging tongue, watching you eat him, licking his own luscious lips. "Yeah, that's it, you fucking live for this... you ready to be blessed, for all the filthy sins that you've confessed? You ready for my come, bitch?"

You sigh in bliss as he shifts on the bed, holding your head steady in place as he starts stroking his enormous dick over your sloppy face. 

" _God_ , yes—please, heavenly Father, let thy will be done..." you implore him, dropping your jaw wide open like the whore you are and blasphemously waggling your tongue. "Thy kingdom fucking  _come_..."

And come he does. Fucking covers you up, hot thick seed coating your skin, and it feels like salvation and sin, the taste so pure and dirty when precious drops land on your tongue, condemning you to perdition and sending you up to the pearly gates of heaven all at once.

As Dean's pulsating cock slowly starts to come down from his climax, you take the chance to kiss and worship all over his shaft, using the juicy tip to sweep all of the come from your forehead and cheeks and chin onto your lips so that you can slurp it all up, savor and swallow even more of it. You could never possibly get over just how much you love it. 

Once that's done, you both just stay there for a few seconds, or maybe a few minutes, struggling to steady your breathing—though really, you're already ready to start in all over again, to endlessly service and please him...

Father has places to go, though. You should've known. "Damn, sweetheart. That was fucking  _hot_ ," he grunts as he tucks himself back into his pants, then reaches into one of his pockets to hand you something. Just a little slip of paper, not that electromagnetic contraption. "Listen—I gotta go, but here's my card. Give me a call anytime if you're itching for, you know, another confession or, uh, private worship session."

The card doesn't quite look legit, but you naturally don't give a shit. There's no possible universe in which that matters. "Yes, Father. Is this number for your home or for the church?"

Dean chuckles quietly and scratches his beautiful head. "It's, um—neither. You see, our practice is rather... unconventional. We're currently preaching out of a cheap-ass motel."

You blink up at him, absentmindedly licking some lingering come from your lips, still unable to process just how fucking perfect he is. "Oh. Wherever the Lord's work takes you, I suppose."

He chuckles again, then leans down to drop a kiss on the top of your head before leaving your room. "Damn right, beautiful. Couldn't have said it better myself."

 

***************

 

Of course, it isn't long at all before you call to schedule another private session with him.

The door to Dean's motel room is ajar when you arrive—you knock softly; the panty-drenching voice from the other side says to come in, and you happily oblige.

Upon entering, you see now that he's sitting on a bed, just as he was when you last worshiped him. But nothing else about this scene is similar to your last time together.

"Father...?" you address him, gaping and staring. Because this holy man is now clad in a casual gray-green flannel and rugged blue jeans, some occult-looking amulet hanging from his neck, and... and he's sitting in a sea of fucking guns.

You gulp loudly, beyond turned on as you watch him cleaning one of them.

Dean can obviously tell just what the sight of this is doing to you, judging from the sexy smirk that slips across his lips, raw heat slaying you through and through. "Hey there—if it ain't my favorite filthy devil of an angel," he greets you with a wink, not bothering to stop his task or to get up from the bed upon your arrival. "I, uh, told you we're a little... unconventional."

You clear your thirsty throat, then swallow loudly again. "Yes, well, I suppose even the lord in heaven needs his weapons."

"Don't you know it, dirty girl. Come on—get over here," he beckons you, reaching to start unfastening his belt and unzip his fly with one hand while the other waves his gun around seductively. "Wanna suck my dick and clean my ass again while I clean out this gun? You like watching me play with my toys? These big bad weapons I've got?"

At that, you are down on your knees before him, before you even know what has happened. "Yes, Father...  _God_ , you are so fucking hot..."

"Yeah—ain't got my priest outfit on, but you can keep calling me that all you want. Father... or God..." Dean snickers as his fingers set to work to free the huge bulge in his jeans. "Or, you know, you could just moan like a slut while you're sucking me off. You like it when I shut you up? Stuff your filthy mouth full of my cock?"

By the time he has finished that sentence, his meat is already halfway down your throat, making you gag and choke again. "Mmmpphhh..."

"Mmm, such a good whore, that's right. Open wide and let me see those pretty eyes. Swallow this goddamn dick like it's your whole purpose in life," he demands, thrusting his hips up to slam into your jaw as he resumes attending to his gun with both hands, leaving your skull free from his grip, free to control your own pace. "Is this the way you pray? Father's holy cock deep in your face? Is this the way you fucking worship, you devoted little slave?"

You reply with your wide eyes and even wider open mouth as you desperately suck him down. After a few mind-blowing minutes of that, you dive into his crack to worship his ass again—blissed out to find that it is even more delicious, even sweatier and dirtier this time around.

Before Dean explodes in your mouth this time, though, he has another even better idea. To pound you in another hole: your dripping fucking cunt.

Reduced to even more of a pathetic piece of shit, you grovel shamelessly before him, on your knees as you beg and plead. " _Please_ , Father, fill me with your seed... plow me like the earth beneath your feet..."

You're practically coming already as you see his lips curve up into his signature smirk. "Yeah, you can count on it, bitch. Gonna take this tight wet cunt to fucking church," he says, bending you over, the leaking head of his cock perfectly aligned with your slit from behind. "Gonna make it  _hurt_."

And hot  _damn_  is it gonna hurt. But once this holy father's huge dick is buried to the hilt deep in your core, there is no longer any difference at all, as far as you can tell, between pain and pleasure. And when he shoves the barrel of one of his guns into your mouth, forcing you to suck it as he fucks the shit out of you, it's even fucking better. Everything this man does, every damn thing, hits a spot you never even knew you had, treating you to a new kink, satisfying each one just as soon as it's awakened. You don't know how he does it, but it doesn't even matter. The high that you reach during your time with Dean, a taste of damnation so dark and deep that it's downright divine, is something you know you will always treasure, carry in your soul forever.

After he fills you up with his sacred come, once his throbbing cock has slipped out of your slick wet heat, you collapse to the floor in a heap, your face landing close to his feet. Your immediate urge is to kiss them—but then you notice that one of his handguns has fallen to the carpet too, the lethal hunk of metal laid out right in front of you. And you really want to kiss this motherfucking weapon. This toy that your king uses to shoot bullets straight into his victim's hearts, to blow their heads off, tear them apart, make them bleed to death, slaughter without a second thought.  _So fucking hot_. It's so hot that it's worth forgoing the temptation of sucking on his delicious toes, if only for a second.

You gaze up reverently at him as you press your lips all over every inch of the deadly thing. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

Dean snickers and shakes his head, a gesture that surely would've come off as sinister if he weren't such a lighthearted flirt. He's especially playful and pure in the moments right after he's come. It's one of the millions of things that you adore so much about him. "Oh, sweetheart, God knows you're too fucking filthy to be forgiven."

You know it's true— _so why not get even filthier, then?_  It's all you can do. 

"Then  _please_ let me commit another sin," you beg him, abandoning the gun and lifting yourself up from the floor to drop a loving kiss on the tip of his dick, then turning around to bend over for him. "Please, my lord, my king... fuck me into damnation. Take me to hell and make it feel like heaven."

A growl of arousal escapes him, palm coming down against your ass to smack and grope the burning flesh. "Damn, girl. Already?" he asks, though he should know better than to be surprised by that. He does know better, but teasing like this gets you even wetter. "Again?"

Leaning over the bed, you survey his collection of guns and then bow your head down to pick one of them up with your mouth. Sucking on the barrel, smiling through it as you look back over your shoulder at him. Soon you'll beg him to stick one of his other guns in your cunt. Maybe put his priest outfit back on, make you confess your sins and pray to him again while he fucks you hard in every hole with all his dirty deadly weapons. 

Yeah, it's sick, but you and he both are so into that kind of thing.

And you both are  _so_  ready now to go at it again. So you tell him. "Amen."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So who else is dying to confess and commit sins with Father Dean?? :P
> 
> Thank you as always for kudos and comments! Keep them coming, pretty please <3


	15. (S01E15) Damn, It's Good to See You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 15 ("The Benders")*
> 
> *In which you are Kathleen the deputy*
> 
> You are an officer of the law. So you've got a pair of handcuffs. You use them on Dean, and that pisses him off.
> 
> Dean likes to dish out punishment when he gets pissed. And you don't doubt that the punishment will be fucking delicious. 
> 
> It's not until you end up in a cage, kneeling before him as his whore, that you get to taste just how delicious it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo this is the first scene in this fic that features a watersports kink, BUT please note the following:
> 
> ** This kink is only described in a few paragraphs of the chapter — so if you'd like to just skip the pissing part, you may be able to still read most of this, and then just ignore the text that lies between the following lines: "Take it, bitch" up to "He is near enough now". Plus the second-to-last paragraph. That's it :P **
> 
> And for those dirty whores like me (though in my case, ONLY for Jensen/Dean) who do love the idea of drinking/getting showered with his piss, hope you enjoy this ;)

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 15 ("The Benders")***

***In which you are Kathleen the deputy***

 

 

"Hey, officer?" the gorgeous god beside you asks. "Look, I don't mean to press my luck..."

You bite your tongue for half a second. The thought that runs across your mind is that—well, you don't  _mean_  to press your lips all over him and beg him for a rough fuck, but with him looking like that— _flawless face, beautiful bowlegs, fine ass_... you can't blame yourself if it happens.

You're a goddamn officer of the law, though, so you have to keep composed. Just respond with something innocent. "Your luck is so pressed."

"Right," he says. If he can read your dirty mind, he isn't showing it. At least not yet. "I was wondering—why are you helping me out anyway? Why don't you just lock me up?"

Biting your tongue again, you hold back the real answer: that you'd rather  _he_  lock  _you_  up. Imprison you down in some kinky sex dungeon to spend all the rest of your life as his slut. But you have a nice, believable, G-rated answer to give him instead of confessing to such shameless smut. Some stuff about your brother Riley, who went missing a few years back, leaving you behind to feel responsible for never having found him. 

And though it's not the whole truth, it is true. You can really relate to this dude—Dean, you're pretty sure is his real name, a supposedly deceased suspected felon, though he had at first faked his identity as an overweight black state policeman named Gregory Washington—in his search for this Sam Winchester person, who Dean claims is his cousin.

You're not really sure what to believe anymore, but you're kind of past caring, with your mind too full of fantasies about being his dirty little whore.

Some time later, you two drive up alongside a forest, and Dean orders you to pull over. You do as he bids, proud of yourself for not blurting out ' _yes sir.'_

Striving to maintain an aura of authority, you tell him to stay back while you check out the forest. As you had known to expect, he objects.

"You're a civilian. And a felon, I think," you remind him, leaving out the part about how his dashing good looks are a dangerous distraction. "I'm not taking you with me."

Dean persists; you pretend to give in, making him promise that he'll let you handle everything. Then making him shake on that promise. And as your hands come in contact, you whip out your favorite cop trick, swiftly fastening a silver cuff around his wrist.

He gives you a look that you wish wasn't getting you wet. "Oh, come on..."

You click the other cuff around the car door handle, leaving him behind as you head off to do your job.

"This is ridiculous," he groans, apparently oblivious that it's far more ridiculous how fucking hot he is. "Kathleen, I really think you're gonna need my help..."

"I'll manage, thank you," you respond, trying and probably failing to sound confident.

Dean is very clearly pissed. And  _goddamnit_ , he's especially hot when he's pissed off like this. So as you march off through the woods, all you can think about is that, next time he sees you... he is gonna wanna punish you real good. 

You don't doubt for a second that the punishment—whatever it is—would be fucking delicious.

 

***************

 

You wake up in a cage.  _God, yes_ — _this must be a dream about being with Dean in his kinky sex dungeon_ , you think as you blink through the grime that's all over your face.

"You all right?" asks a stranger from another cage nearby.

 _Oh_. Realization sinks in, then, that this is no dream. You remember what had happened after you walked away from Dean. You had approached a rundown house and met a creepy-looking little girl named Missy, then gotten knocked out by a shovel wielded by an even creepier old guy.

And now here you are, locked in some barn, while Dean—the only person who could possibly come save the day—is stranded faraway, handcuffed to your car.  _Nice going, deputy_ , you grumble to yourself silently.

The man in the neighboring cage is Sam, you learn as you spend the next few seconds talking to him. Then the sound of a door swinging open at the other end of the barn scares you both into silence. You tremble in fear as the footsteps come near...

But soon enough, thankfully, it's a very familiar voice that you hear. A voice as slick as leather, smooth as whiskey, sweet as pie, and...  _ugh_ , it sounds so good you could just  _die_.

"Sam?" Dean addresses his cousin, eyes wide with relief at the sight of him. "Are you hurt?"

The shaggy-haired Winchester smiles, evidently as happy as you are about your unexpected visitor. "No," he answers.

Dean bangs his palm loud and hard on the side of Sam's cage. " _Damn_ , it's good to see you."

 _Oh, God_ —the aggressive way he slammed his hand against the cage, the husky rumble of his voice, the words he said...  _so freaking hot. Fuck._ Now is not the time to get all hot and horny, though. He hasn't even noticed you yet, so you speak up, genuinely curious. "How did you get out of the cuffs?"

Dean finally turns toward your cage. And from the look on his face, you can tell that, just as you had hoped when you had cuffed him up... yeah, he is definitely pissed at you. The words he utters next are just pure sex, even more so because you don't doubt for a second that they're true. "Oh, I know a trick or two."

You swallow down the drool that has now gathered on your tongue.  _I'm sure you fucking do..._

 

***************

 

Over the next hour or so, you and Sam escape your cages; Dean gets tied up by this whole twisted criminal family, but ends up without major damage to that flawless body of his, thankfully; creepy little Missy ends up locked in a closet; and you shoot a man in the head. Missy's father, the same man who had knocked you unconscious with a shovel earlier today—and who, years ago, had kidnapped and killed your brother just for his amusement. You're supposed to feel satisfied, now that he's dead.

But you don't. Not really. And the emotional strain, the raw trauma and pain, of everything that has happened is so damn intense that, even in Dean's mouthwatering presence... you are no longer even in the mood for sex.

Of course, the motherfucker has to try and press his luck again. He asks if he and Sam can catch a ride, rather than wandering off in the middle of nowhere, all alone. The whore who's still lurking inside you dares to dream that, maybe, he's asking because he doesn't want to separate just yet—maybe he wants to sit shotgun beside you and get his flirt on, now that his cousin is safe, now that the job is done. See if he can tempt you into coming back to his place and indulging in some naughty, dirty fun...

On some level, you still long to say yes. That's all you want. But you just  _can't_. You're a mess right now, oncoming tears fogging your vision, struggling to process what just happened, completely wrecked over the emptiness that you feel after getting your revenge...

So you say no to him, against all the desires that are still buried within. Tell him and Sam to start walking. In a genuine, warmhearted gesture that somehow makes him even  _hotter_ , Dean briefly comforts you about your brother and gives you his cell number. You bid the boys farewell and go sit in your car, crying your eyes out like a sappy piece of shit for a few seconds. Minutes. Maybe hours. At this point you can't tell, which makes it that much worse.

Eventually the tears subside. You heave a sigh, glancing in the rearview mirror at your red-rimmed eyes. 

And then it hits you all of a sudden. The fucker had given you his number.  _Why—what possible reason could he have had to do that? Other than..._

Your fingers now have a will of their own, fumbling for your phone, dialing his digits in a desperate panic. You've just experienced the most intense, traumatic day of your whole life, no doubt about it. But that's no excuse to pass up a proposition from a fucking god. A chance at the best sex that you will ever fucking have.  _Goddamnit, Kathleen; you may be a badass cop, but right now you are just being a dumbass idiot._

The phone rings... and rings... and rings  _again_... and then: "Well, hey there, deputy."

"Dean!" you excitedly greet him. You're so fucking needy that it's practically a scream.

No doubt the volume gives him half a scare. "Whoa—you okay there?"

"Yeah, I... I just, um—" you stammer breathlessly, "...changed my mind. I'll, uh, give you a ride." The response continues in your head:  _sir, I want you to please ride me all night._

He chuckles, as if he knew all along that you'd cave in.  _Of course he did._ "Well thanks, Kathleen—that's real sweet, but you know, we're hours away by now..."

 _Shit_. So you  _had_ been sitting here sobbing for that long. Seething with sexual frustration and self-hatred, you bend your head down and bang it against the steering wheel, hard, not even caring that it sounds the horn on your cop car.  _HONNKKKK._

"Was that, uh...  your car? You stuck in bad traffic?" Dean asks.

A sigh slips past your lips. "Yes. I mean—no, just..."

"Just horny?"

Ugh,  _fuck_ —a joke that's so shamelessly cheesy has no right to be so mind-blowingly hot...

He laughs at his own wisecrack, proud of his own pun, because he's a smug bastard like that. "I got you, officer. On my way back."

You blink, hearing something in the background on the other end that sounds like Sam complaining. "Really?"

"Yup. Just one second," Dean pulls away briefly to say some inaudible words to his cousin, then returns to the phone. "Sammy's got a real thing for hitchhiking, so he'll keep going on his own, but me—I'm coming, baby."

 _Oh my God. Oh my God._  Well aware of just how red and weepy your eyes are, now you really wish you kept some makeup here in your police car. There's a first aid kit— _but where's the important emergency shit when you need it, goddamnit?_

"See you soon," Dean devilishly coos.

"Wait—" you suddenly blurt, biting your lip as an idea enters your head. What you're thinking is probably illegal, but honestly, you just don't give a shit. "...I think we might have to head back to the crime scene."

He pauses. "You mean..."

"I mean," you say, already wet at the thought of living out your dirty dreams, "I'll be waiting for you in my cage, Dean."

 

***************

 

Though Dean had told you he was hours away, that didn't prepare you for the fact that each hour would feel like a fucking decade, waiting for him in this cage. And that's  _after_ you'd already spent a damn long time trying to primp yourself in the car mirror, grabbing random supplies from the first aid kit to spastically touch up your face. There were miniature medical scissors in there, which you had used to trim and shape your brows—though you've never cared about that kind of thing before, you suddenly do now; tonight you want to snip every stray hair. As for your sob-swollen eyes, you had hoped to find antibacterial wipes to smear away your smudgy eyeliner stains. Those were missing from the kit, but as it turned out, you could lift off some of the black stuff with the adhesive part of a band-aid. Sort of. 

Your appearance still isn't anywhere near Dean's level of attractiveness, but then again, no one's could ever be—you'd settled on fixing yourself up to a point that you'd consider above average, if only slightly. Or something like that.  _Good enough_.

 _This barn is one hell of an unsexy place_ , you think as you shift uncomfortably here in your cage. Or it would be, if not for your imminent meetup with Dean. It's dark and dank and stinks like death, which makes sense, given everything that happened, till Dean and Sam brought the Benders' murder bender to an end. You can't let yourself think about that, though. If you're gonna live out your filthy fantasies with Dean, anyplace within a hundred-mile radius out here in the middle of nowhere.... then  _this_ is the best place to be. It's the ultimate kinky sex dungeon, basically.

It occurs to you at one point that maybe, just maybe, the son of a bitch is making you wait longer than necessary here  _on purpose_. Maybe he's twisted and sadistic in that way. You don't really know.

But you sure as hell hope so.

When the door to the barn finally opens, it feels like the floodgates inside you do, too. Before you even see him, you're already dripping.  _God, you need this flawless bastard to fucking annihilate you._

He approaches slowly, every step measured and steady, as if you haven't been kept waiting for far too long already.

A depraved smirk spreads over his lips as he towers before you so beautifully. " _Damn_ , it's good to see you, deputy."

 _Oh, hell yes_ , you think to yourself. He had slammed his hand forcefully into the bars of your cage as he'd said it. Just as he'd done earlier today when saying those words to his cousin. It's as if he  _knew_ just what hearing those words from his lips, and witnessing his violent movements, had done to you. You're sure it's true. Limbs moving on instinct, you crawl across your cage, toward the wall where he's standing, eager for the closeness that you've been craving all day. Dean is a young guy—probably in his mid-twenties—but given the raw power that he radiates, right now you're filled up with the urge to call him  _daddy_.

"Don't you look pretty," he praises unexpectedly, making you swoon like a schoolgirl with his flattery. "Did you primp yourself up for me? Hm? Not sure why you bothered with that, when we both know you came here to get your face fucked hard and fast. Rough and messy. Look at you, so fucking slutty. Bet you're soaking wet already."

 _Holy fuck_ —his dirty talk cuts in straight to your core. Your eyes widen as you grovel before him as his whore, every cell in your body on fire from his filthy words and consumed with desire for more.

Dean's eyes gleam with the knowledge that he's everything you've ever dreamed. "You like being down on your knees?" he teases, reaching through the bars of the cage just to trace your trembling jawline with one of his thick, skillful fingers. "Mmm, so eager to please. Ready to be an obedient slut for me, take all my orders? That what you want, officer?"

Your head bobs submissively up and down, tongue hanging shamelessly out of your mouth. "Yes, sir."

"That's a good bitch," he says, shoving his forefinger roughly past your panting lips. "Now suck it."

You groan in bliss as you take him in, arching your neck forward as far as you can, bars of your cage pressed up against your chin, slurping and savoring him, soaking in the feeling and the flavor of his skin. All the while you keep your wide eyes locked on his, as you devour his finger in a deep fucking French kiss. He tastes just as good as he looks, if not better—you had known to expect nothing less, but you didn't know it'd be as good as  _this_. Even just from sucking on one of his digits, you can feel your arousal building to the point of almost bursting past your limits, every passing second getting you hotter and wetter. 

Then Dean bends his knuckle slightly until the blunt edge of his nail scrapes the back of your tongue, making your throat contract in a sloppy gag all of a sudden. It's a feeling that's supposed to be unpleasant. But it isn't. Because  _he_  caused it. Even as you gulp and choke around his finger in your throat, you have no desire to stop this. Definitely not; if anything, it spurs you on. His domination is exactly what you want.

"Desperate little cunt," he taunts, pulling his finger out, running the sopping wet tip around the edges of your mouth. "You want more?"

You moan, smashing your face harder into the cage bars. "Yes,  _please_  sir..."

"Greedy whore," he grunts. 

Then he swiftly shoves two fingers in, his hand having shifted position so that his palm is facing up toward the ceiling, anchoring your upper lip with pressure from his thumb. He pushes deep into your mouth, pumping in and out, hard and fast, his thumbnail almost threatening to fucking plug your nose with each ferocious thrust. The throat-fucking is even more degrading like this, and  _God_ , that makes him even more delicious. You kind of wish he would cut off your breathing completely, and you're not even ashamed of it. You know no such thing as shame anymore. 

The look on his flawless face in this moment is as dangerous and dark as bloody fucking murder. "How many can you take, slut? Want another? Maybe four?"

He skips over the third step altogether, suddenly forcing in both of his other fingers, stretching your lips out wider than ever. You love the way it hurts. Though you haven't touched yourself at all yet, because the only thing you care about is giving  _him_ pleasure—nonetheless, you've become more and more dripping wet, and Dean's brutal domination of your whole face is about to make you come, you're pretty sure...

And that's exactly when he pulls his fingers out.  _Shit_ , you think as you instinctively gasp for air, face still mashed into the bars of your cage, moaning hungrily. He can read you like an open book, apparently. And it's the most exquisitely excruciating torture.

"Look at you, bitch," Dean sneers down at you, no doubt noticing the obscene bulge of your eyes as he starts to reach for the bulge in his jeans, basking in your adoration as he hears your breathing hitch. "If you're so filthy you get off on just my fingers down your throat... how do you think you're gonna take this fucking dick?"

" _Fuuuck_ ," you groan, pushing your face as far as you can through the bars of your cage, feeling literal pain as he slowly steps away. Oh, he's gonna make you beg for this.

"Fuck?" he repeats as he unbuttons and unzips his jeans. "That's not an answer, slut. Now tell me how you're gonna take this cock."

The answer comes to you instantly, words falling off your wet lips in a needy grunt. "Oh  _God_ , sir—deep and hard and any way you want..."

"Damn straight, you filthy fucking cunt," he spits through the bars of your cage, a thick gob of it landing warm and slick upon your face. "Mmm, all day you've been craving your punishment. Haven't you. Bet you just cuffed me to that car to piss me off, to see what kind of kinky shit you could provoke me to do."

Then Dean spits on you again, gloating as you gape your mouth open for him to aim it at your tongue, the smutty act enough for him to know that what he said is absolutely true. Meanwhile he has let his jeans fall loose around his thighs, and you watch hypnotized as his palm now slides over the cloth of his boxer briefs, handling the huge, throbbing meat that he's packing inside. The sight is so damn hot you feel like you're about to  _die_.

"Know what happens to stupid skanks who piss me off?" he scoffs as he finally unleashes his manhood. It's even bigger and harder and more beautiful and perfect than you'd thought, and holy mother of  _fuck_ , no cock—no thing on earth, you're sure—has  _ever_ looked so good. He is keeping his meat cruelly out of your reach so that his rich scent fills your senses, getting you drunk on his sweat and his musk, but your tongue, strive though it might, can't quite come close to touching the prize. That ever-thirsting tongue of yours has been stretching out of your mouth for so long now that it's almost painful how parched it is, aching and dry. But good God, you'll be damned if you don't fucking try. 

As to his question—you don't know what happens, but you're dying for him to do it to you now, whatever the fuck it is.

The most deviant smirk you've ever seen dances playfully along Dean's luscious lips. "This. This is what happens when I'm fucking pissed," he hisses, encircling the base of his dick in his powerful fist. "Take it, bitch."

 _Hooooly fucking shit._  The instant he says it, a stream of golden fluid spurts from the tip of his flawless dick, aimed through the bars of the cage straight at your slutty face, into your gaping mouth, splashing all over your overstretched lips. In a matter of seconds, your whole throat is flooded with Dean's steaming piss. It's  _insanely_  delicious. The most perfect balance of salty and sour and bitter and sweet.  _Piss seriously has no business being so delicious_ , you can't help but think; but then again, it's  _his_. Every inch of him, every damn thing that comes out of him, must taste like pure fucking heaven. At this point you're beyond dripping wet, and you're desperate to guzzle down all the hot piss you've been fed, although Dean hasn't told you to yet...

"Drink," he orders then, reading your mind, and it's downright divine. "Wanna see you swallow every fucking drop. That's what your throat is made for, isn't it. Pathetic little whore."

You start gulping as fast as you can, and while you drink up every precious ounce that's landed in your mouth, Dean aims the rest of his piss on your forehead and cheeks and chin, soaking every inch of your face in every drop of him, and you feel so damn blessed and so blissed out to be showered down by this glorious god of a man. You could truly never get enough of his piss. And lucky for you, there is so fucking much of it. By now it's splattering all over these cheap clothes you're wearing, too, drenching the plain white tee that you put on under your police uniform, causing the thin fabric to cling like sin against your skin. You've never done anything like this before—but here and now as Dean's complete and utter whore, the sick, twisted sensation of everything that's happening is absolutely mind-blowing, fulfilling you in ways that you never could've imagined.

"Not the kind of facial you expected, is it," Dean teases wickedly as his stream finally subsides, the last few droplets leaking from the tip, which he spatters to land on your lips. He snickers as he watches you wag your tongue around like a bitch, eyes still wide open and riveted on his. "Look at that—this was supposed to be your goddamn punishment, but you... you fucking love it. Such a kinky piece of shit."

He is near enough now that you can wrap your filthy lips around the sweet head of his dick in a long, passionate kiss, moaning deeply around his throbbing meat and gazing up into his perfect face in abject reverence, wordlessly thanking him for the delicious gift.

"Mmmm," he growls as he reaches both hands through the cage to grip your head and hold it there, twining his fingers in your hair, each strand soaked in his piss, tangling in a mess as he clenches his fists. "Ready to get that sloppy face fucked good and hard, bitch? Gonna deepthroat this big dick?"

His rock hard shaft is already halfway past your lips when he says it, but you both knew the answer to that question from the moment you first saw him. All you can do now is respond with the pure submission in your gaze as you gawk up at him, and with the whorish moan that resounds from the depths of your throat.

"Yeah that's it. Suck it, slut," he commands, framing your skull firm and tight in his big, sturdy hands. "Worship this cock as it fucks you up."

You do exactly that. The thickly veined velvety weight and the sweat-salty savory taste of his meat in your mouth, hammering rough and hard into your face till you're sure you'll have scars from the bars of this cage, is so exquisite that, at any fucking second, you are going to explode. It's not long before rope after rope of Dean's thick, hot come starts shooting down your throat. You still haven't touched yourself yet, not even once, but as you swallow down every sweet, creamy drop from his cock, you feel shockwaves of pleasure convulse through your cunt, his climax impeccably timed with your own. By the time he pulls out, spraying the final shots of his load on your face, then suddenly releasing his grip on your head, you have lost all control and collapse to the ground with a euphoric moan.

Dean is not even done, you realize soon enough.  _He really is some kind of god_ —after just a few seconds, he's ready to go at it again, just as dirty and rough. He instructs you to turn around and bend over with your cheeks pressed against the cage, positioning your crack in such a way that he can fuck you from behind between the bars, his savage cock ravaging you hard and fast, first in your soaking cunt, then your tight little ass. Talking down at you like the slut that you are all the while; he fucking knows how much you love that. And each orgasm you get from everything he does and says is even better than the last. 

You have no clue how much time has passed, you realize later, but it's not as if that matters. This godforsaken den of sin, this cage you're in, this place that has become Dean's kinky sex dungeon... is your entire fucking universe.

 

***************

 

Sadly, you have to leave that universe eventually. No matter how bad you may wish you'd never have to. Once Dean decides that he is done here, that's the end of it, you figure, given that he's still—and always will be, in this universe and any other—your supreme commanding officer. He helps you out of your cage, and you depart the barn, leaving the finest hours of your whole damn life behind you. Morning has broken by the time you do, the contrast of the light so bright it blinds you as you step outside. That gives you a good excuse to keep your head bowed down and cling closely to Dean, whose eyes adjust more easily, to let him be your guide, as the two of you head toward your car. You wonder how he sees you in the light of day, now that he knows just what a filthy slut for him you are.

Standing by your car, as your eyes finally adapt to your sunny surroundings, you blink a few times and gaze up at him. And find that he's not looking at you any differently. You realize then that he had probably known you were a filthy slut for him all along, because really, who in their right mind ever wouldn't be.

You two have been casually bantering, spouting off small talk, for these past few minutes. You then fall into a brief silence. It's about time to get in the car, to drop Dean off wherever he's going, then get back to your own life as an officer of the law. And you already know, then, that you'll never see him again.

There's one more thing you've got to do before that happens.

You know that you can't pull that same trick of shaking his hand; you have another plan. Approaching the driver's side of the car, you smile innocently up at Dean. "Mind opening the door for me? No matter what may have happened back in there, you know—I like to think I'm still an officer and a lady..."

Despite what a brutal, bitch-degrading dom he can be, you know that Dean's got class and chivalry in every fine bone of his body. He graciously agrees. Which gives you the perfect opportunity to whip your favorite cop toy out of your back pocket and cuff him to the handle of your car door. Just as you had done before.

The look of surprise on his face is so precious and priceless, you can't help but give him a sweet little kiss.

"So, Dean—what do ya think of that?" you provocatively ask. "You fucking... pissed?"

That signature smirk of his, deviant and delicious, curves up his lips. "Oh, you know it, bitch."

You're on your knees before he even orders you to be. All ready to suck and swallow every drop of come and piss he'll deign to feed you from his fucking flawless dick. Dean uses his free hand to open his jeans and release his meat, already stiff by the time it's unleashed, as ever looking good enough to eat. And with one hand firmly cuffed to the car door, he grabs onto your skull with the other, still able to wield complete control over you as his whore. He doesn't hesitate to punish and dominate you hard and dirty all over again. And you adore every second. Mesmerized by the perfection of his face, while all your other senses are full of his scent and his taste, you watch the way his wet pink tongue slips out of his mouth as he watches you guzzle his piss, the way he scrapes his pearly teeth across the slick flesh of his luscious lower lip...  _fuck_ , you could get off on just the sight of him licking and biting his own lip like this, while your lips are splattered with all his sweet juices. 

And he knows it. No way he doesn't know how divine and delicious he is. Always, but especially like this. Dean Winchester is always hot, always a goddamn sex god... but never more so than when he is fucking  _pissed_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this — with or without the piss — please, please do let me know in the comments!!! I'd really love to hear it :)
> 
> Thanks so much as always <3


	16. (S01E16) A Thing for the Bad Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 16 ("Shadow")*
> 
> *In which you are Meg Masters (version 1.0)*
> 
> You are a badass motherfucking demon. But all you really want to be is Dean Winchester's bitch.
> 
> Or at least that's what you think, until a familiar stranger pays you both a visit.
> 
> Time is fluid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo this chapter has some dirty degrading demon sex and then a little surprise/twist at the end :P
> 
> I kind of surprised myself with that — I hadn't expected the scene to go in that direction but I really enjoyed writing it! Hope you guys enjoy reading :)

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 16 ("Shadow")***

***In which you are Meg Masters (version 1.0)***

 

 

The tall one is  _supposed_ to be the main attraction. Your target, your toy. Sam Winchester—the shaggy-haired guy with the puppy dog eyes you first met on the side of some road months ago. The sad, lost little boy.

You're a badass motherfucking demon and you know you have a job. Know you can't fuck it up. But that was before you set eyes on big bro. You catch sight of both Winchesters from across the bar, long before Sam has any idea where you are. And even from this distance, you can feel the effect that the other guy has on this meatsuit you're wearing, poor little Meg Masters from Massachusetts, all soaking wet in an instant.

You don't like it. Not one bit.  _This kind of shit makes it harder to focus on being a badass, goddamnit_. Maybe Sam is supposed to be the main attraction... but his brother is bound to be one hell of a big, beautiful, dumb distraction.  

 

***************

 

That pixie-haired minx—whoever she is—even from across the room, Dean can already tell she's bad news.

And he digs that. Sometimes it feels good to be bad. To go after what he's not supposed to.

Tonight, that's you.

First Dean tries to just focus on what he  _is_ supposed to do. Getting intel from the locals on the recent death in town, chatting up the cute bartender, making sure to score her number. He'll keep that for later. Sammy will give him shit for it, for being unprofessional about his business, and the poor kid will pretend it's not because he's jealous, bitter and a little butthurt every time he sees his brother flirting with some skank. Dean will laugh it off as if he doesn't know better. Then they'll get right back to talking about the case. For the Winchesters, after so many months of going through the motions together, the whole drill is all too familiar.

What's  _not_  familiar at all is what happens soon afterward. Watching Sam get distracted all of a sudden in the middle of their serious conversation, deliberately crossing the room, and then placing his hand on the short-haired girl's shoulder.  _Your_ shoulder. The shoulder of the girl that Dean has his sights set on banging tonight.  _What the hell?_ And now they're greeting each other by name, as she turns in her seat.  _So Sammy, like, knows her?_

The next minute or so doesn't go as expected. At all. Turns out this bitch is a... well, she's a  _bitch_. Glaring daggers at Dean from the first second, apparently completely armed against his charms, then scolding him for dragging Sam around like luggage. Girl has just met him and already seems to hate him more than anything. To want to kill him, even. 

Sure, Dean had known that you were bad news—but the bad bitches are usually the ones most down to screw, the ones most eager to bend over and be daddy's little girl, let him take control, do whatever the fuck he wants to do. But nope. Not you. Dean's ego has taken a hit, and he's not used to that kind of bullshit.  _She's not even that into me, damn it_.  _Or maybe just damn good at hiding it. Yeah, that must be what this is. Fucking bitch._

Deep down, despite his fleeting insecurities and doubts, Dean knows you want it. Want it  _bad_. And the way you overcompensate with bucketloads of hate, trying so hard to hide it, to fight it... well, all that wicked sass turns him on, to be honest. He digs that. Wants it bad, too. But not as bad as you do.

That's why he quickly excuses himself to go get a drink. Knowing that his absence will feed the fire of your desire for him. You may be a demon, but Dean is a hell of a hot handsome devil, and tonight, whatever happens, he's the one who's gonna win. Because he knows just how to use desire as a fucking weapon.

 

***************

 

"So, hot little Meg is summoning the Daeva?" 

After Sam filled him in on everything he witnessed while spying on you in the warehouse, Dean gathers that you're the shady skank who has been working with that Zoroastrian shadow demon creature, or whatever.  _Figures. No wonder so much bad bitch energy was radiating from her._

"Looks like she was using that black altar to control the thing," Sam confirms.

Dean quirks his brows in a sinister yet playful way with his next words. Well aware that, right now, this statement is actually truer of him than his brother. "So Sammy's got a thing for the bad girl."

The irony of that is lost on Sammy, thankfully. The younger Winchester has his own twisted sexual tension thing going on with the mysterious Meg Masters, and that clouds his judgment enough for him not to notice just how much more fiercely that fire is burning between you and his brother. It's under the surface, smoldering, smothered.  _And thank fuck Sam hasn't yet picked up on it_ , Dean thinks. That would make shit more awkward once all three of you are together.

They go on to talk about the creepy bowl that you were using to communicate with someone. With whom, Dean wonders—the Daeva?

"No, you said those things were savages," Sam says, shaking his head. "This was someone different. Someone who's giving her orders. Someone who's coming to that warehouse."

Dean doesn't know who that is. But he knows something.

He knows that bad bitch has it coming. Tonight,  _he_  is gonna be a savage toward her. Toward you. Gonna be the one giving you orders. He's sure as hell someone different, and he's coming for you in that warehouse. Everything Sam said just now? Dean is gonna be all of those things.

 

***************

 

So now you have Dean Winchester right where you want him. Even fully clothed and knocked out unconscious as he is—maybe especially like this—this absolute Adonis just looks hot as hell, divine as heaven. All tied up and bloody like a succulent hunk of meat ready to shove in the oven.  _The oven being your hungry mouth or your soaking wet pussy, obviously._

To be honest, you hadn't expected him and Sam to be so tactless, so sloppy and  _stupid_  about getting into this mess. They're supposed to have mad skills as hunters, you'd heard. If that had ever been the case, then at some point before tonight, all of those skills must have fallen out of their ass. Trying to sneak up on you in this warehouse like that, stumbling straight into your trap, practically offering themselves up as victims to the Daeva's shadowy grasp. You never would've thought they'd screw shit up like goddamn amateurs. But they had. And you dig that. 

 _Good God—or bad Satan, or whatever you should be saying,_ you think in silence as your flickering black eyes trace the delicate curve of Dean's brow and the strong, chiseled ridge of his jaw, then start wandering south.  _You could take him right now, wake him up with the feel of his dick in your mouth, and he'd be completely powerless to stop you, even if he wanted to..._  It would be rape, basically, but it's not as if that gives you pause—nah, more like spurs you on. You're a demon; you'd get off on being so bad.

But that isn't what you reallywant. You  _should_  want to be in control, to ravage Dean from a position of power, use your own strength to force his cock, against his will, into your throat and your cunt. But you don't.

It's shameful and terrifying to admit, but the demonic slut inside you wants—and  _needs_ —Dean to be dominant.

For as long as you can, though, you'll pretend to have some control over whatever ends up happening. Some part of it, if not everything. You'll be damned, even more so than you are already, if you don't pretend.

 _Shit_ —Sleeping Beauty is stirring. There's no more time to let yourself think, once those big emerald eyes flutter open and blink. As soon as that happens, here where you're crouching down in front of him, you feel yourself falling into that deep green abyss, smitten by the curl of the golden-brown fringe that so perfectly frames it... yeah, you're probably the only demon in history who ever had a freaking eyelash kink. You never did till today. But everything about this guy is literally flawless, in every way, and it's impossible not to obsess over every last inch of him, every damn thing.

Then he speaks, and that husky yet velvety  _voice_ , holy shit—it's a whole other kink. "You kinky little bitch," he growls. Though you know he's referring to the ropes that bind him, rather than the way you're fetishizing everything about him, still it feels like he's reading your mind. "So this is your thing, huh? Light bondage?"

Not gonna lie, you're turned on by the way he just insulted these serious knots you've tied. You're gonna try your best to sound sassy and confident despite the effect that he's already having on you. With everything you've got, you're gonna try.

You flash a devilish grin, then lean in near to whisper your reply into his ear, taking a firm hold of one of his muscular thighs. "Oh, believe me, Dean. Nothing about what's gonna happen tonight... is  _light_ ," you purr as his scent fills your senses up, getting you drunk. "All dark. Hot and heavy as fuck."

"Hmm, well—seems babygirl needs someone who can teach her how to tie a fucking knot..." Dean taunts as your palm slides slowly toward his crotch. "These weak ropes really all you got?"

You claim victory in the little things; the faint catch of his breath as your fingers brush up on his denim-clad dick, the series of rapid blinks. Lean in closer, caressing the folds of his ear with your lips. "What do you think?"

Your victory doesn't last long, because Dean is back in full control over himself the next instant, swiftly shifting his head till his lips are at your ear instead, biting the lobe unexpectedly, teeth clamping down like a beast, savage and strong. "I think we both know what you really want."

 _Unholy fuck_ —just those words and that one bite from him have already sent shockwaves all over your cunt. So you have to press pause before you succumb and surrender your whole being to him. He had almost drawn blood, but he didn't, you notice then as you pull back for a second. On purpose, no doubt, as a little form of torture, surely well aware that blood and pain are what you crave.

"Mmm, maybe. But first—I'm gonna make you a deal, Dean," you offer, just close enough that your breathing and his interlace sinfully with each other.  "If you do one little favor for me... I won't kill Sammy."

"Yeah?" Dean murmurs, perfect pink tongue gleaming visibly behind his pearly teeth. "And what might that be?"

Your hand is now hard at work groping the ever-growing bulge of his glorious meat. "Take a wild guess, baby."

"Don't 'baby' me. You filthy fucking slut," he rasps, smirking as he hears the whorish moan escape your throat. "Yeah, knew you'd like that. See, I'm gonna guess the favor that you're after... is just to get  _fucked_. Like a worthless cunt. Bloody and dirty and rough."

 _Ugh—why does every word out of his mouth have to read your damn mind like an open book, fuck you right up? How the hell does he use words so well, like some black magic sex spell?_ Before you can control or curb yourself, your mouth is all over his neck, sucking on his smooth skin and savoring the salt of his sweat, your lower body shifting position to straddle his legs.

Over the pornographic sound of your own sighs and groans, thankfully you can still hear the words he says next. "That what you want, Meg? Gonna have to beg."

Those words, and even more so the voice that uttered them, are hot enough to kill you dead. But the badass demon in you manages to take one final stand just then. You pull back again, holding Dean's evergreen gaze in a sharp, piercing stare as your fingers comb through the soft spikes of his hair. Trying as hard as you can not to be distracted by the way that the bulge in his jeans is now pressing against the damp crotch of your own pants, throbbing and firm. "Now Dean. Before you fuck me upside down, sideways, and six ways to Sunday... we need to set some terms."

"Well, tough on you, I don't negotiate with bottom-feeding scum. So you can take your terms and shove them up your ass," he snarls as his hips grind up into you, slow and smooth at first, now hard and fast. "Then maybe this big dick can push them in deep. Would you like that? Yeah, you'd love it if I tear this little ass up. Make you feel the fucking burn."

" _Fuck_ ," you whimper, trying and failing to cover up the needy utterance as just another wordless grunt. Mustering every ounce of control that you can, because what you're about to say won't work at all if you're not confident. "I do love a big, strong, cocky man, but... before you get so smug, hot stuff—which of us is tied up?"

"I dunno..." he says, and then suddenly his whole body is shifting, more than these ropes around him should permit, "...you tell me, slut."

 _Oh shit. Oh shit._  You were so fucking  _stupid_ , you realize now that it's too late: Dean hadn't been calling the bondage 'light' just for kicks. For him, the knots you'd tied really had been a piece of cake. Now he's escaped, and in a fraction of a second you're pinned to the floor beneath him, and you're sure his next move is to reach for a weapon—because even if he does want to fuck you, no matter how bad... now that he knows about your whole deal with the shadow demon thing, the creature that recently brutalized him and his brother, he definitely wants you dead more than that.

What he doesn't know is that you won't quite die that easy. No normal weapon would get the job done. He doesn't know you yourself are a demon; he just thinks you're controlling one. But you'll play along for now, because you can.  _Because it's fun._

"Dean, wait— _wait_ —" you plead, "if you kill me, the... the Daeva will kill Sammy."

That gives him pause, just as you knew it would. But he still ends up holding his gun up to your head. "Give me one good reason to believe you."

You actually have some ground to answer with confidence now, so you do. "Oh, baby, I don't need to. You know I could've easily compelled the shadow demon to do just that. So tell me, Dean—would you shoot, if there's even a chance,  _any_  chance, that what I said is true?"

His finger on the trigger twitches, lip curling up in feral anger as the barrel of the gun presses harder against your skull. He looks so ridiculously  _hot_  like that, you think, as your hips impulsively grind up into his, able to manage that slight movement though his full body weight has you pinned to the ground. You are a demon, after all. Setting aside the way his sexual sorcery brings you to your knees, you  _are_ stronger than him, at least physically.

The friction of your crotch against his stiff, jean-covered cock makes him gasp and blink briefly, just as he'd done when you had first touched his erection, and you revel in the little victory again. This one isn't over as quickly. He growls and shifts, suddenly shoving the gun past your parted lips, into your mouth. "Ugh, you sick, twisted, shit-eating bitch," he sneers as he pushes it deeper in. " _Fuck_  you."

Dean starts pumping it down your throat then, and it's so deadly hot that after a few seconds you feel like you are  _so_  gonna get the fuck off—that's when he pulls it out and casts it from his hand, letting the hunk of metal clatter loudly to the ground. You've used his love for his unconscious brother as a weapon, and even if it's just one battle, just one little victory—still, in that if nothing else, you've won.

But then he leans down and starts biting your neck, lips and teeth and tongue viciously attacking your meatsuit's tender skin, and your moment of triumph is  _done_. Especially when he growls out those hate-filled words again. "Fuck you.  _Fuck you._ "

At that, he has won. And you  _want_  him to. "Sir, please do."

And he does. But no part of it is to oblige your request. No, it's all for himself. He could not possibly care any less about your pleasure, your desires, other than to rightly take them as consent because he's not  _that_ kind of monster, and to use them against you to feed his own dominance and power. Dean Winchester has  _never_  given less of a shit about  _anyone_  he's ever fucked; you can tell. This is hate sex. Utter and absolute hate sex. The sex you get when he really, really wants to kill you but knows that he can't. It's bloody and dirty and rough and it's exactly what you want.

By the time he's done, you can't even fucking feel your cunt. Or your ass, or your tits, or your tongue. That's how good he fucked you up. All raw and numb. And he'd used so much more than just his cock to get the job done. He had used what seemed like every part of his beautiful body, plus that sexy gun, to dominate and degrade every part of yours as you groveled and squirmed like a piece of shit whore on the floor. And you're a fucking demon, so this kind of sex is what you always hunger for.

But demons are supposed to be the ones who diabolically dish out this kind of violence to their victims. You're not supposed to be on the receiving end. And till tonight, you'd never been. Never wanted to be, even.  _Now, in some sick twisted way_ , you realize as you struggle to steady your meatsuit's ragged breathing,  _this whole thing kind of feels like a... sin?_  Whatever that even means, for a demon. And that really sucks to admit. 

But if it is a sin, it's one that Dean Fucking Winchester made you commit. And that makes it perfect. That makes it heaven, whatever heaven for demons even is. Hell, it's enough to make anything, everything, worth it.

And of course Dean knows it. From where he's now towering over you with his calloused heel pushing down brutally against your gasping neck, he spits down on your forehead for what is probably the thousandth time tonight, and  _fuck_ , that feels so good, so right. You can barely feel anything at all, but still on some level you are able to savor the sensation of your dirty degradation, and it seriously is demonic heaven.

"Such a pathetic, worthless, filthy piece of shit," he scoffs down at you, stepping on your face, blocking your view of his perfection as he uses the sole of his foot to spread his thick, hot spit all over it. "From just one look, I knew you were a bad fucking bitch. But  _this_  bad? Hell, I never would've guessed. Whatever the hell you are—some kind of bottom-feeding monster, devil-worshiping witch—I don't know and I don't ever want to. What I do know is that you are pure evil, pure filth, some sick subhuman scum that doesn't deserve to exist."

It's all true, every word of it, and you love him— _or whatever love even is, for a demon_ —even more for saying it.

The suffocating pressure of his foot on your face, combined with the aftershocks of pleasure from the countless times you came, are now sending you into some half-conscious daze. You're aware of a deafening noise and a blinding white light, and a presence that feels...  _familiar_ , but only in the vaguest way, as if from some another time, some other life...

 _This must just be some trippy post-sex dream_ , you figure, though somehow you can hear every word of the following dialogue loud and clear. The voice of the familiar stranger is incredibly deep and low and hoarse and... and it's really really pleasing, and it's making you feel things you've never felt before. You wonder what kind of effect it's having on Dean—if it's making him feel things, too. You think so, for some reason that you can't begin to fathom. But dazed out as you are, you can't be sure.

"Hello, Dean."

Brief silence.

The familiar stranger goes on. "I know that you have... issues accepting our love. I understand that you enjoy aggressive intercourse with women. And I have learned to live with that. But, for many reasons, this is one sexual incident that makes me very uncomfortable. It is one that I would rather you forget."

Dean finally speaks, then, though he doesn't seem able to finish a sentence. "What the..."

"Well, I feel the degradation in this instance is excessive. And unwarranted. Meg may be a demon, but she has redeeming qualities, and I firmly believe that she does deserve to exist. I am her unicorn, and she—she means something to me. Though I promise, Dean, there is no cause for jealousy."

" _Huh?_ "

"You will understand in time," the low voice assures him, pausing before self-correcting. "Though I suppose that—that isn't entirely accurate. As this encounter itself will have been forgotten by then..."

"Who are—why are you talking like you know me? Do we..."

"Time is fluid, Dean."

"Fluid?"

Another brief silence; the stranger's voice breaks it. "Does this awkward pause mean that you are about to make a vulgar joke about another kind of fluid?"

"Come again?"

"There, of course you did." You can hear the smile on the stranger's lips. "Come is a good one. You know, Dean, I've always loved your sense of humor. Even when it seems like I don't get it."

"Um..."

"I love you. Though you will soon forget I said that, too," the familiar voice says just before the dream ends. "Goodbye, Dean."

 

***************

 

"Hey, Sam?"

At the sound of Dean's voice now, you blink, unsure why it feels as if several hours have passed in the span of the last half second.  _That doesn't make sense..._ you still have the Winchester brothers tied up in front of you, right after they snuck up on you in the warehouse. Everything is still going just as planned.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Dean says to Sam, "but your girlfriend... is a bitch."

You blink again, still trying and failing to shake off the strange feeling. Unsure why the name  _Clarence_  is randomly echoing in your head, and why it feels like there's a... unicorn on your shoulder. Or something like that. 

 _What the actual fuck, Meg?_ You are a badass motherfucking demon. And Dean's right; you are a bitch. Your head doesn't have room for this kind of nonsense. And your heart— _oh, that's right. You don't have one._

You're still horny as fuck, but suddenly there's something you want even more badly than you've been wanting Dean, ever since you first laid eyes on him. Yes, he's still gorgeous, but all of a sudden, you just... you have a sudden craving for, uh... pizza?

But there's no pizza man here. It's just you and the Winchester brothers. So you brush off the unicorn dust, stop your mind from wandering and wondering whether you deserve to exist, and just get back to the whole badass demon bitch business.

 

***************

 

Sitting in Baby later that night, blood all over his face, there's a shadow of a feeling that Dean can't quite shake.

He's not sure if he ever could. Or if he even wants to. 

So maybe he'll just carry it. Beneath all the other layers that he buries, all the bullshit.  _May as well_ , he thinks. Through everything, maybe this feeling—whatever it is—will be one thing to hold onto.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this :) I've never been officially aboard the Destiel ship, but I can see the appeal of it, and it just organically ended up coming into this scene — I really hadn't intended to include it here till the last minute! It's kind of like how the Wincest aspects of this fic just sort of naturally happened for me. Or should I say supernaturally ;)
> 
> But as always, the main focus of this fic will still be Dean fucking the female reader in each scene :P
> 
> Anyhoo, love you guys and thanks for following this journey so far!! Hope you're enjoying it, and am always super grateful for kudos and comments, if you are <3


	17. (S01E17) Scaring the Hell Out of People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 17 ("Hell House")*
> 
> *In which you are that record store clerk's cousin, Dana Thurston*
> 
> Your last name may be Thurston. But it's not until you meet Dean Winchester that all your deepest, dirtiest thirsts are awakened.
> 
> Soon afterward, his brother wants to prank him, and he asks you to join in. And though that may be a mistake... well, it's one that your inner skank can't help making.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is that episode in which Dean and Sam kept on pranking each other :) That ends up playing into this chapter, about halfway through or so.
> 
> And as a heads up, there's a bit of Wincest angst/fluff towards the end. The smutty stuff is all Dean with the female reader, though.

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 17 ("Hell House")***

***In which you are that record store clerk's cousin, Dana Thurston***

 

 

Your cousin Craig Thurston is a real loser. You're not really sure why you ever agree to hang out with him—but you're damn glad you did, that one summer when you got together and painted random symbols all over that old abandoned house in town. You two had made up some ridiculous haunted myth about it. A myth about Mordechai Murdoch, a silly idea that caused some serious havoc once the story got posted online by those freak geeks who call themselves HellHounds. You and Craig are to blame for planting the seed of the bullshit, even though Ed and Harry are guilty of spreading the spurious story around. 

People  _died_  because of that, as it turns out. So, yeah—that should probably be the biggest regret of your life, your lowest moment ever. But it's not. Because that big fat deadly mistake is what ends up getting you into the pants of Dean Winchester.

Craig is moping around one afternoon, behind the counter of the record store where he works as a clerk. The Winchester brothers waltz in; it's not the first time he has seen them.

"Hey, Craig—remember us?" the green-eyed studmuffin greets him.

Your lame-ass cousin happens to be straight. One bat of Dean's lashes could surely turn any dude gay, but not Craig, because he has bad taste anyway. So Dean's charms don't do anything for him today. "Guys, look... I'm really not in the mood to answer any of your questions, okay?"

Dean assures him that they're just here to buy an album. He flicks through the discs, makes a deliberate selection and walks up toward your cousin, rambling all the while about the Blue Oyster Cult logo on the cover of the record that he's chosen.

"Tell me, Craig, you uh—you into BOC?" he asks. It might seem like small talk, but the sinister shift in Dean's tone makes it clear that he's not asking innocently. "Or just scaring the hell out of people?"

Well, that sure scares the hell out of Craig.

"Now why don't you tell us about that house..." Dean says, emerald eyes piercing holes in Craig's mind, "without lying through your ass this time."

Of course, your cousin tells them everything. The ridiculous origins of the Murdoch myth. His role in it. And of course he mentions your name, too, as if that means a thing to Dean and Sam, as if it'll help to share the blame. You should hate him for that reason. But you don't. Because once the Winchesters have got the information they were seeking, just as they're about to head out—that's when you happen to walk in.

You say bye to the friend who's been walking beside you, approaching the store. "Bye, Dana," she replies as you swing open the door.

"Dana?" an ovary-destroying voice echoes your name as you enter.

Your jaw drops then as you collide with the equally ovary-destroying face of Dean Winchester.

He smirks wickedly at the effect that he so clearly has on your heart and your body. "Dana Thurston, huh?"

 _Oh, you're thirstin', all right._ You don't say that aloud. Gulping loudly right now, you can't really manage an answer, dumbstruck by the utter perfection of this stranger. _What unholy drug was God on when he sculpted those features?_  "Uhh..."

"Yeah, that's her," your cousin confirms from the other side of the store.

"Hmm. Well, Craig—seems you left one crucial detail out of that story you told us..." Dean says as his evergreen gaze drifts down over your tight-fitting top. "You forgot to mention that your cousin's super hot."

"Dean," the tall guy standing next to him huffs. "Can you  _not_."

The gorgeous god in front of you ignores that. "So tell me, Dana—do you work here, too?"

Of course you don't work in this dump of a store. You were just stopping by to nag Craig again for the money he owes you from the week before. But somehow, just then, speechless though you may be in Dean's presence, words suddenly come to you. "...I can if you want me to."

"Ooh," Dean suggestively coos, full lips puckering into a pink ring of sin, "you already know what I love to hear, don't you."

"I sure hope so, sir," you answer as one of his big, strong hands brushes suggestively over your bare shoulder.

"Look, Dana—" Craig uncomfortably cuts in, "if you're gonna fuck him, you don't have to pretend like you work here or nothing. It's not like it's the first time you've taken the key to the back office to go suck some stranger's dick."

You impulsively bite your lip. Yeah, it's true; you're a bit of a slut, or a  _lot_ of a slut, and your cousin knows it. Hell, everyone in town does. And now so does the green-eyed stunner you're hoping to fuck.

Yet you've never been...  _this_  kind of slut. The slut that you've become for Dean, from the moment you first laid eyes on him. 

No, this time is different. "Oh, this isn't just ' _some stranger_ ', Craig," you purr as the elder Winchester's palm slides down your arm, letting you grab his hand and guide him toward the back of the record shop. "Not just any other dick. Even an arrow-straight loser like you should be able to see that he is fucking  _perfect_."

Your cousin grumbles a bit, but doesn't hesitate to hand over the keys as you move past him. "Yeah, whatever. You should know that he seems pissed at us for what we did last summer." 

You have no clue what Craig means just then, but it doesn't really matter. All you can feel is the thrill that rushes through your veins at the thought of this flawless Adonis being pissed.  _God, you would love for him to fucking piss all over you, if that's how he plans to show it..._

And he  _knows_ it, you can tell, the instant the back office door is open, Dean slamming it shut behind him as he shoves you in.

"Dana Fucking Thurston," he snarls as he pushes you up against the wall. "Heard all about you from your cousin. All that shady shit you did. You've been a bad girl, haven't you? Such a naughty little bitch."

A slutty moan slips from your throat at the mind-blowing sound of 'bitch' off of his lips. That mouth was fucking  _made_  to say it.

He snickers as your whole body shivers beneath him. "You oughta know, slut—some serious shit happened thanks to you and Craig's dumb fucking monkey business."

At this point you're still totally clueless, but whatever the hell he means, you are just desperate to be punished.

"So he was right. I'm pretty fucking  _pissed_ ," Dean warns you, words slithering off of his lips in a devilish hiss. "And that turns you on. Gets your desperate cunt nice and wet. Doesn't it."

Your wide open gaze tells him  _yes_ , but your voice can't quite manage words yet.

So Dean goes on instead. "Hmm. Well, dirty little Miss Thurston—why don't you tell me..." he whispers the words into your ear as one of his sturdy hands twines in your hair, taking a forceful grip of your head, "...whatcha thirstin' for, bitch?"

 _Hoooly shit._ You let out a needy groan, high on those words as his other hand starts applying downward pressure to your shoulder, shoving you toward the floor. You sink eagerly to your knees as his whore, gazing up at his perfect face while desperate, pathetic pleas pour from your lips. "F-for you, sir... for your come... your piss... just— _ugh_ , please, I'll take anything you'll give..."

"Yeah? That what you want? Think you deserve that kind of punishment?" Dean teases as he grinds the crotch of his jeans into your breathless face, torturing you with the temptation of the meat that's sheathed within, his strong musky scent seeping through the thick layer of denim. "Nah, I think you'd enjoy that too much, you sick slut. Haven't earned your pleasure yet. You're not worthy of such a goddamn gift."

 _Oh, God_ —you were beyond prepared to suck his cock, to slurp his come, to drink his piss—but you were not prepared for  _this_...

"So, you thirsty fucking whore... you're gonna stay right here. On your knees. Groveling and begging like a pig," he sneers as he lets go of your head, making you groan at the sudden distance of his dick as he takes a few steady steps backward, eyes still fixed on yours in a smoldering stare as he sits his pretty ass down in the seat that's conveniently right behind him, settling into the plush office chair. "You're gonna watch as I get myself off. And I'm not even gonna let you  _touch_ —let alone  _taste_ —this big, beautiful, perfect fucking cock."

"Oh, sir,  _please_...  _God_..." you moan as Dean reclines in his throne, spreads his mighty thighs wide and starts to unbutton his jeans. As much as it hurts to stay put where you are, so painfully close yet so pitifully far, you know better than to disobey your master's orders. You don't doubt that he could always manage to come up with ever crueler forms of punishment and torture.

"Hands behind your back," he commands. "Clasped tight, whore. Right over your dirty ass. And beg with your face on the floor."

 _Is this guy for real?_  You can't help but wonder as you swiftly hasten to do his bidding, giving in to your complete submission and humiliation, not even surprised by how damn good it feels. This stunning stranger is so powerful, so perfect, you're not sure if you'll survive another second of it. And yet all you want and all you need is  _more_...

Especially once he whips out that majestic cock of his. Your face is down on the ground right where Dean wants it, but you've angled it up just enough to be able to see him, to steal sweet glimpses of your king—and at the sight of his massive meat, drool starts spilling all over the floor on the instant. You're pretty sure that a similar puddle is forming right under your cunt. So damn wet that your slick must be leaking through these lacy panties you're wearing, dripping out from under your slutty skirt.

Then, just to make the view even better—to ensure that your torture continues to get worse and worse—Dean strips out of his jacket and shirt. His toned torso gleams with a faint sheen of sweat, which you're sure tastes like heaven, the sight of each inch of his glowing skin getting you more soaking wet, like the tip of his dick as he slowly starts stroking himself, fist sliding up and down his thick shaft with pure power and purpose and just... holy fuck, he's so perfect it  _hurts_.

You whimper and whine like a sad piece of shit as his beautiful lips curl up into a merciless smirk. "Like what you see, dirty girl? Yeah, look at you squirm. Such a filthy whore. Drooling all over the floor, fucking dying of thirst."

The floodgates inside you are seriously set to burst. "Please, sir..."

"Please what, you pathetic little slut?"

 _Fuck_. Those dirty, degrading words hit all your spots. "Please let me worship your cock.  _Please_ , sir—it's so fucking beautiful, so perfect, it's... it's everything I want..."

"Yeah?" he goads, pumping himself into the empty space between his glorious throne and your groveling face. "Want it deep in your throat? Or that soaking wet cunt?"

"Oh God—both, Master, please..."

"Hmm. Or maybe I should just sit here and take a piss. Aim it straight at your face, make you stay down on your knees, watch you swallow it all. Every drop. Would you like that, bitch? You want that kind of punishment?"

You can't even describe the type of shameless whore you've now turned into. " _Yessss_ , yes sir, I do... thank you..."

"Oh, don't thank me yet, slut," he scoffs, precome glistening gorgeously all over his rock hard cock as he vigorously jacks himself off. "Never said you deserve it. You should know you don't."

"I'm—I'm sorry, Master..."

"Not yet you aren't," Dean devilishly growls. "Now shut your mouth, you fucking whore. Don't wanna hear another word. Just stay there and watch this big cock come all over the floor. You're not getting a drop. You don't get what you want."

He stands up then and aims his huge dick at the carpet, all his come set to splatter mere inches away from your face. It's more than you can take. You wish the floor had been some harder surface, so that you could pray he'd let you clean the mess up with your tongue, slurp all his juices up.  _Maybe you can still try to suck some of it off,_  you think—scrape with your teeth like some ravenous beast. But this stupid carpet will probably absorb most of it.  _Fucking shit_...

Tears literally start to spill from your eyes as Dean's pearly white seed begins spurting out, thick hot ropes that you wish were pulsating straight into your throat, every precious drop landing so close, yet so far from your slobbering mouth. And then the bastard fucking  _laughs_ , because he can. Because he's twisted like that. And you lust after him even more because of it, getting off on this stranger's sadistic laughter, because you're a sick piece of shit.  _Why does his come have to look and smell fucking delicious, goddamnit_. Not as if you should've expected anything less.

Once Dean is done spraying the floor with his come, breathing heavy and rough, he slides his fist in a slow squeeze down the length of his still-erect dick, snickering down at you as he licks his lips. You already know what's coming next. And yes—in a matter of seconds, he's soaking the carpet in steaming hot piss. A few stray traces of the golden spray splash up onto your face, which feels amazing, but you know better than to flick your tongue out for a taste. At least not while your king is watching. No, you don't get to lick a fucking drop of his divine, delicious juices.

Dean shakes his dick to let the last few droplets dribble from the tip, right in front of your panting lips. Then he lets out a deep, satisfied breath. "Damn, this office is a mess," he wickedly says. "Whose fault is that, bitch? Whose job to clean up after all this?"

You groan as you stare longingly at the half-absorbed puddle of come and piss. "Mine. Always mine, sir."

"Mm. Good answer," he chuckles as he tucks his cock in and zips himself up. "Well, that was fun. You kinky little cunt."

Now that the fun is presumably done, you dare to grumble and complain a little bit. "No, it wasn't."

"Aw, Dana—you really gonna sit there and tell me that you didn't love every minute? We both know you're fucking dripping wet," he teases, standing over you and curling his fingers in a masterful come-hither motion, beckoning you to sit up for him. You do, raising your face off of the floor, gazing obediently up at your king. Humming in pleasure at the silky yet husky sound of his voice, at the sensation of his touch as he strokes your head. "There. That's a good little pet."

Before you can follow your impulse to kiss his palm, to suck his thumb, his hand is gone. You watch as he picks up his shirt and throws it on, and you're unable to resist asking a stupid desperate question. "When can I see you again?"

Dean shrugs. "That depends."

"On what?"

He towers over you where you're still kneeling on the carpet, donning his worn leather jacket. "On when I'm in the mood to fuck a naughty little slut."

 _Ugh, why does every sentence from his mouth have to be so damn hot?_ You bite your bottom lip and flash a dirty, flirty smile at him. "Well, something tells me you get in that mood quite a lot..."

His pretty brows arch up, at that. "Oh, so now you think you know me?"

"No, sir—I'm sorry," you reply instantly, the rough edge in his tone snapping you straight back to the submissive type of slutty. "But I... I hope you'll show me."

"Mmm. Maybe I will, little Miss Thurston. If you're lucky," he says, grabbing a pen at hand and tearing off a loose scrap from a nearby notepad, scrawling down a name and number. "In the meantime..." 

Dean strides up to you with the torn piece of paper, folding it deliberately between his dominant fingers. You know better than to reach to take it in your grip. Instead, you open your mouth slightly so that he can slip it in between your lips, every move of his making you his bitch, letting you bite it like a doggy treat between your teeth.  _God, you wish this man would drag you naked all around town on a leash, crawling on all fours at his feet..._ Maybe some other time, if you're lucky. Master is done with you for now.

Before he saunters out, he winks and pats your head again. You've always known that your last name is total bait for sex jokes, but it never works as well as when Dean Winchester whips out this playful pun. "...stay thirstin'."

 

***************

 

"You want me to  _what_?"

"Come on, Dana. A hundred bucks."

You chew your bottom lip, deep in thought. For a cheap-ass college chick like you, a hundred is... a lot. A solid wad of cash. 

But not enough for you to do  _that_. Clearing your throat, you refuse as adamantly as you can. "Nuh-uh. I'm not gonna do it, Sam."

"Okay—fine, then," the younger Winchester groans, and you can practically see his puppy-dog scowl through the phone. 

It's been a couple of days since your first filthy encounter with Dean. Ever since then, you've been texting him incessantly, not giving a shit about any delusions of dignity. And now that he and his brother have finally finished the business of cleaning up you and Craig's haunted house mess—you don't know the details of that, and you're not gonna ask—your king has finally agreed to meet up for some more kinky sex. 

You'd called him just a few minutes ago to finalize plans for tonight's hookup. Instead, his brother picked up. And made you a proposition that you really hadn't been prepared to hear. Sure, in your life you've done some crazy shit—sometimes for money, even; you're not above taking some payment—but this... this is just  _weird_. It's not even that it's sexually deviant or gross or anything. It just seems, well, straight up stupid.

But Sam's not done yet. He's not stopping at a hundred.  _Damn_ , you think,  _the freaky bastard really wants this._ So you play hardball for a minute, till he makes you an offer too good to resist.

Your eyes twinkle at the prospect of all that dough getting in your bank. You really are a money-hungry skank. "So remind me again what this is all about, Sam—you just wanna watch? This how you get your rocks off?"

" _What_?" he huffs with an over-defensive laugh. "No—no, of course not. This is about a, uh... a whole prank thing we've got going on."

Sam is lucky that he can't see how skeptical you look right now. "Uh-huh."

"That's all I'm doing," he insists. "And now, thanks to you, I'm gonna win. This prank is gonna take the fucking cake."

"Yeah okay. Well, I already knew that Dean's a big-time freak—"  _in the best way_ , you add silently, but don't say, "so I guess it just... runs in the family."

Sam snickers on the other end of the line, visions of tonight already running wild in his mind. "Oh, Dana... you've got no idea."

 

***************

 

"Ugh—did we  _really_ have to do this in your dorm?" Dean gripes as your roommate's loud snoring resounds through this tiny shared room.

Or at least that's who Dean  _thinks_  it is, beneath the covers in the other bed. Your roomie is actually out of town on break. The figure in that bed is just snoring for show, you know. Listening all the while, lying there in disguise, wide awake.

You smile as you shut the door behind you, pulling Dean in for a kiss. "Of course we did. Sneaking you in here was half the fun, wasn't it?"

"Hmm... half, huh?" he hums against your lips. "Pretty sure you're underestimating how much fun is still to come, bitch."

Your smile widens in excitement as he says it. "Anyway—before we get in bed, I should probably, um... tell you something."

Dean's keen green eyes are wandering. "Make it quick before Snorey McSnoreson there wakes up and sees us," he mutters, pausing and tilting his head as he squints at your roomie's bed. "Hey, is it just me or is she way too tall for that mattress?"

You do all you can to regain his attention, grinding your hips hard against him. If he looks hard enough, he might recognize Sam, and that's the last thing you would want. "Don't worry about her, Dean. You're here with  _me_. Now focus, 'cause what I'm about to tell you is important."

"Uh—okay," he whispers, evidently a bit apprehensive, but trying to play cool and hide it. "Fire away, babe."

Pausing for dramatic effect, you bite your lip and take a quiet breath. "So I have this... um... this thing."

His long lashes flutter in a series of blinks. "You mean, like... you're not clean?"

 _Ugh, damn it Dean._  "No, that is  _not_  what I mean—"

"S'okay, Dana. Really. As long as it's not something flaring up all—you know, ugly or smelly, or anything like that—it's fine by me," he says, upper lip lifting into a smirk that has no business being so smug and cocky when he's talking about goddamn STDs. "You see, my dick is—well it's, uh... sort of... supernaturally immune to disease."

Now it's your turn to blink several times super quickly. "Um. Did you  _really_ just say that, Dean? I mean, of all the crap any horny dirtbag ever said, that has gotta be, like..."

"I know—crazy, right?" he marvels at his own bullshit, a stupid sexy twinkle in his eyes. " _Swear_  it's true, though. Cross my heart, hope to die."

It dawns on you then that the Winchester brothers are probably complete fucking psychopaths.  _Though it's not as if that would stop you from jumping in the sack with this fine ass. Not for a second._  If anything, you realize based on the soaking wet heat building in your cunt, Dean's whole stark raving bastard vibe just kind of... turns you on.  _Shit. Is that bad?_

"Listen, I'm  _serious_ ," he persists in response to your silence. He then launches into some sick pathological storytime session. "So a few years back I was making the moves on this hot doctor, but before I fucked her, she insisted on running all these stupid tests on me first. 'Fine ass like that must get the fuck around', she'd said. I admitted it was true, because you know—I'm honest like that. And damn proud of the fact. Anyway, doc made me wait forever till the test results came in. But it was worth it. Turns out I'm clean as a whistle, always have been. She told me there was no way in hell that made sense if I had so much unprotected sex. But I guess I'm just blessed. It's... it's almost like there's an angel watching over my penis or something."

 _Ooookay_ , you think.  _This guy may be a living, breathing sex god, but he is also a walking, talking loony bin._  "That is... um..."

The son of a bitch smirks and winks. "Fucking awesome?"

"More like certifiably insane."

Dean shrugs and pulls your body closer into him. "Yeah, well, so is the way I'm about to fuck your brains out... but you ain't gonna complain."

At this point, desire is downright blazing through your veins—but you can't let your focus stray.  _You've got mad bank to make._ So you somehow summon the strength to pull a few inches away. "So, as I was saying..."

He groans in displeasure as you struggle to resist him. "Aren't we past talking about your 'thing'?"

"No. Because it's not a disease. Not a physical one, at least," you tell him, setting the stage for Sam's prank. "It's actually... it's a pretty intense kink."

This time Dean doesn't blink. His eyes just... darken a bit, in a way that's arousing as hell, and also terrifying. "That supposed to make me hesitate or something? You should know, babe. Kinky's my middle name."

You giggle softly through your nose. He is so fucking hot, and he  _knows_. "Yeah, well I—I just thought maybe you could use a warning..."

"Nope. This kink of yours—bet you a hundred bucks it's one I've done a hundred times before," he wagers, oblivious to the irony of his hundred bucks reference, how his brother's offer of the same amount had set in motion what's about to happen. "Whatever it is, bitch... I'm game."

"Okay," you say, trying hard to keep your hushed voice calm and steady. "Let's get to it, then. It's waiting for us in the bed."

"Ohh, me likey," Dean snarls darkly. You two are standing right beside your bed already; you try not to gasp too loudly as he shoves you down hard onto the soft duvet.

 _Stay focused, Dana. Focused._  "Mmmnph..." you moan in bliss as his full weight pushes your body violently into the mattress.  _Fucking focus._  "So—Dean, you uh... you know how you made me your pet?"

"Mm-hmm," he growls, biting your neck as he tears off your tanktop and gropes at your tits. "You fucking loved that shit. Bark for me, bitch."

"Unghh, fuck— _ruff_ —" you obey for a split second, unable to resist, then quickly struggle to refocus, "...yeah, I did love it, but—but what I was gonna say is, I... uh... I've got a pet of my own, you know."

Dean is leaving deep hickeys all over your throat as he teases your nipples with those magic fucking thumbs. "Like, you mean you're a switch? And your sub wants to join in a threesome?"

 _He's so cute when he's dumb_. "Well... not exactly," you tell him, shifting beneath him slightly. "Let's get you out of these jeans and under the covers, baby."

Of course he maintains full control for the next several seconds as the two of you seamlessly strip off your clothes, flinging them all over the room, supposedly so lost in lust that you don't even care when each item of Dean's clothing lands right on Sam—though that's actually part of the plan—then maneuver to slip in the sheets. Dean's voice is all sex-drunk and dreamy when he speaks. "That where this kink of yours is waiting for me?"

"Mmm, definitely," you purr, reaching down toward his massive erection. The fingers of your other hand simultaneously fumble around on the mattress. Till they latch onto the thing that you've been hiding in the sheets. "You know, Dean—this big, long, sexy, supernaturally disease-free one-eyed snake of yours... he's got some company."

You hold your breath, suddenly tense as you execute Sam's prank.  _Well_ , you think,  _here goes fucking nothing._

Dean reacts  _exactly_  as his little bro must have hoped. "WHAT THE—FUCKING—"

Sam deserves a lot of credit for finding a rubber snake at the last minute that's so freakishly realistic. With a vibrator built in. Even when you're the one who pressed the button, you still shivered when the scaly thing rattled against your skin.  _That's_  how real it feels. 

You can almost hear Sam's stifled laughs over Dean's high-pitched screams. The younger Winchester is still buried beneath your roommate's sheets, where he's hiding Dean's clothes, pretending to be sleeping. As if anyone even could be, the way Dean is screeching.

"Son of a—goddamn— _where the hell are my pants?!?_ " he demands as he frantically scans your dorm room, snatching up his amulet necklace but finding nothing else of his.

Meanwhile you're still chilling out on your mattress; you had thrown the rubber snake onto the floor at one point, when Dean couldn't see, in the midst of his panic.

He notices then that it's no longer on the bed. His eyes are so wide that you're worried they'll burst from his beautiful head. "Where is—where'd it go??"

You shrug and try not to crack up too much. "I dunno."

"You—you freak  _bitch_!" he shrieks at you as he suddenly sees the thing right by his feet. " _Fuck this shit!_ "

He thrusts the door open and stumbles out into the hallway. That's Sam's cue to hop out of bed, and yours too. The younger brother grins and mouths out a quick  _thank you_ , leaving a thick wad of dollars on your dresser before he bolts right out the door; you wrap yourself in your bathrobe and soon follow.

The dorm corridor is already filled with a racket of loud frat boy laughs, and— _not surprisingly given that this is Dean Fucking Winchester_ —a whole choir of horny coed gasps. 

You poke out into the hall just as Sam has gotten Dean's attention, waving around his brother's jeans in one hand. "Somebody lose some pants?"

"Sam!?" Dean bellows as he turns on his heel and storms back down the hall toward him. " _Damn it_ , Sam!"

Though you haven't known the guy for very long, you're pretty sure that he has  _never_ looked more furious. He is so fucking wickedly  _hot_  when he's pissed.

He yanks his clothes out of Sam's hands and throws them on. Even when he's a complete raging beast like this, somehow he still pulls off being adorable like it's nobody's business, mumbling under his breath like a mortified schoolkid who got punk'd at recess. "Ugh. Guess that snake wasn't real, was it."

One of your slutty friends who happens to be staring from the neighboring dorm room lets out a giddy giggle, shamelessly ogling his crotch in the last few precious seconds before his jeans pull up over his dick. "Well,  _that_  one sure is..."

Dean may be pissed, but he doesn't waste a second of his anger on that cheeky little bitch. He turns to leave, followed closely by Sammy, and your slutty friend sure as hell won't ever see him again.

 _And neither will you_ , you realize then. Once it's way too late, as you watch his fine, furious ass stomp away, you realize all of a sudden that  _no_  amount of cash could've been worth that. Worth the grave mistake of wasting your final moments with Dean on some idiotic prank.

Later that night—after getting yourself off just on the scent of him that lingers in your room and on your bed, for as long as you can possibly still smell it, which you wish had been forever—you count up the bills that the other Winchester had left on your dresser.  _Well, at least you've made serious bank._  It may not be worth the mistake you made. But you'll take it. Because you're Dana Fucking Thurston. Though you may have been lucky enough to be Dean Fucking Winchester's pet for a minute... for most of your life, you're just nothing but a money-thirstin' skank.

 

***************

 

"What'd it take, huh? How much of my hard-earned poker money did you waste, paying off that cheap skank to do this?"

Sam scurries to keep up as his fuming brother stomps across the college parking lot toward his car, blatantly ignoring that question. "Relax, Dean. You started this whole stupid prank business," he reminds him. "And I warned you about how it escalates. I just wanted to win, and it looks like I did. Hey, why... why are you so fucking pissed?"

Dean shakes his head.  _As if the son of a bitch doesn't know._  "That was... that was just a low fucking blow, Samuel. Real low." 

" _Samuel_? Whoa..." his little brother echoes, as if his full name is some alien language. It may as well be, given how rarely he ever hears it. "You really are serious."

"Damn straight I'm serious," Dean snaps as he locates the Impala in the near distance. "We called a  _truce_ , you sack of shit."

Sam laughs that off. "When has that ever counted for anything?"

 _Well, the bastard is right about that; the Winchesters' so-called truces are usually a load of crap._ But that's not what matters. Dean knows he still has every right to be pissed. "You—you're not fooling me, you know. This isn't just you playing some weak joke on me for being such a snake-o-phobe. Don't think I don't get the real reason you did this."

"What?  _Dean_ ," Sam calls out as his brother picks up speed, "wait—what... what do you mean?"

"Save it, Sammy," the older brother grunts, fumbling for his keys as he walks up toward Baby.

But the snot-nosed kid persists. "I don't get it, Dean—"

"I mean that you're fucking in love with me! That's what I mean!" Dean rasps, floodgates of fury bursting open as his kid brother approaches him. "This shit we've been trying so damn hard to bury, ever since... ever since you came out of the incest closet and fucked everything up. The way that every time I bang some random skank, it makes you wanna scream. I've been screwing around with more women than ever lately and it's more than you can stand, and—and I know that you'll do anything to stop it if you can. But you  _can't._  Don't you fucking understand that? It's just—it's  _sick_ , Sam!"

Sam just towers there in silence for a second. His spirit is weak when he speaks, but his voice comes out steady and strong. For so long he's been trained to pretend. "Wow, Dean. Are we  _really_ gonna fight about this right now? Again?"

His big brother is still in the same seething beast mode. He pretends, too—always has—but the way he pretends couldn't be more different. "I dunno, Sam, you're the one who paid off some stranger to plant a fake snake in my bed! How the hell did you think I'd react to that? Are you so desperate to stop me from having sex that you'd rather I get a damn heart attack?"

Sam snickers to act as if those words don't hurt. "Well, first of all, it wasn't yours."

"The fuck wasn't—can you  _not_ be cryptic right now, Sammy?"

"We planted the snake in  _her_ bed, Dean. And for fuck's sake, honestly—why are you being such a drama queen?"

"Drama queen?  _Drama queen?_ " Dean repeats the phrase in livid disbelief, spitting it out as if it's some blasphemous curse, or worse. And before either brother knows what's happening, he's shoving Sam roughly up against the car, fingers savagely gripping the scruff of his shirt. "I swear to  _God_ , Sammy, I'm gonna fucking choke you to death. In your sleep. So that you won't even be awake to feel it, to get off on how much you like that shit."

Everything between them is a hundred shades of fucked and they both know it. "Yeah? That what you wanna do, Dean? Strangle and smother your little brother? The one who's in love with you?" he taunts, hissing hot air into the slim sliver of space between their lips. " _Bring it._ "

"Oh, you wish," Dean sneers, damned before he'll ever dare giving into this. 

Yes, he knows they've already had hot filthy sex. A few times now—always with at least one other person, as if that changes anything, but still... it's a few times too many. A few more than Dean ever wants to admit. Yet he knows that his brother has kissed every inch of him.  _Every inch except this one, that is._  This breathless mouth from which too many heartless words have fallen out. The one part of him that could ever kiss back. Dean is all too well aware of that. Like a door straight to his heart, it's the one part of him that Sam truly wants, more than any other. 

No matter how deeply he may be thirsting for it, though, that's something Sam won't ever take from his brother. Something that Dean has to give. And he sure as hell never will, for as long as he lives. 

 _Sure as hell not here, now, in this godforsaken parking lot._ His brother's massive cock is straining hard as fuck against him, but that's really not what's threatening to make Dean fall to pieces, bursting at the seams. It's the way he feels his brother's heart against his chest, this big strong chest where little Sammy always loved to lay his weary head to rest. No matter how sinful and dirty shit between them ever seems... the  _purity_  with which it beats. Every piece of Dean's spirit is weak when he speaks. "Fucking...  _fuck_ , Sam. I hate you. I  _hate_ you so much. I..."

Sam shudders a little bit, as if he's stupid enough to think it's true. "I know, Dean. I know you do."

 _So fucking stupid_ , Dean thinks as he silently prays to some angel that doesn't exist. The flash of white light from the warehouse that night, the erased memory that he couldn't forget.  _Please. I know I don't believe in you yet, but I need you. Please just guide me through this._  "I just..."

"It's okay," Sammy says, as if it is.

Now Dean is the one burying his wayward head in his little brother's chest. Trying and failing, as he ever does, to find some kind of rest. "No, it isn't. It's—just...  _God_ , I wish I could hate you."

Sam holds him close. He knows. "Yeah. It's okay, Dean." 

Dean is not gonna cry. No, he'd rather die. "Sammy, I..."

"I know," his brother says, as if he does. Because it's true; he does. He always does. "I love you, too."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this scene!! :)
> 
> If you did, keep the comments and kudos coming pleeease, they really mean a ton to me <3


	18. (S01E18) Two Queens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 18 ("Something Wicked")*
> 
> *In which you are Joanna the motel manager*
> 
> It all starts when your son—who sometimes greets guests at reception, in this humble motel you run—welcomes Dean.
> 
> It all starts with one simple question: "King or two queens?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okayy so this scene ends up a little heavy on the Wincest/Destiel stuff, sort of a mix of smut and fluff. Sorry to any of you who aren't into either of those ships — at first, I really hadn't envisioned the chapter going so heavily in this direction, but at a certain point the scenes just write themselves, as I always just follow my (often unpredictable) dirty Dean inspiration...
> 
> Rest assured though that this fic will still focus mainly on him fucking women all day erryday, since that's what I myself enjoy most anyway! And I know that at least some of you like the Sam and Cas stuff, so I hope you enjoy this one :)

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 18 ("Something Wicked")***

***In which you are Joanna the motel manager***

 

 

"What else do you remember?" Sam demands.

 _Too damn much_ , Dean thinks. None of which he's gonna mention. Sammy always asks too many questions. "Nothin'—I was a kid, all right?" 

Dean enters the motel office while his little brother stays outside. Given the shady way that Dean has been reacting to this whole mysterious shtriga business, he knows that Sam has every reason to be skeptical, more than a little bit suspicious. But that doesn't give him the  _right_  to be, damn it. Sammy doesn't need to hear about all this childhood bullshit.  _He should just respect and trust his older brother and stay quiet._ The shtriga incident, a distant memory mired in guilt and regret, is one that Dean himself would much rather forget...

While these troubled thoughts run through his head, he approaches reception and rings the bell. There's an open doorway behind the desk, through which he can see what looks like a humble living room, where a young boy sits watching cartoons. 

Another boy, a few years older, emerges from the back room and walks up to the reception desk, resting his forearms on the surface as he matter-of-factly addresses his guest. "King or two queens?" he asks Dean.

 _Heh—this kid is all business, no bullshit_ , Dean muses. He can dig that; he relates to it, quite a bit. For no real reason then, he casts a brief glance back over his shoulder, toward his brother. Sam is leaning against Baby, tall silhouette visible through the glass pane on the front door. Turning to face the kid again, Dean cracks a cordial smile as he answers. "Two queens."

The boy follows his guest's gaze through the front window, eyeing Sam quizzically and snickering through his nose. "Yeah, I'd bet."

 _What the hell?_  Dean had thought he liked this kid at first, but he definitely can't dig  _that_. "What'd you say?"

"Nice car," the little punk says, swiftly changing the subject. He chuckles through his nose again as he flashes an innocent grin.

 _Oh, this asshat has it coming_ —thankfully for both of them, before Dean's alpha-male urges fully kick in, the door opens just then.

And at the sight of you, the motel manager, as you enter... those alpha-male urges of his kick in for a completely different reason.

 

***************

 

"Hi," you greet this fine Adonis who is honestly too flawless to describe.

Your panties are soaking the second you walk in. You had at first been pleasantly surprised when passing by the other guy, the tall stranger standing against the car parked outside—surprised, because you don't get any men much above average in this motel very often—but now  _this_  one? This specimen too perfect to be human? You've spent so many days now as a horny divorcée, and this is just the kind of handsome young stud you've been yearning for to show up at your door and fuck your face.

"Hi," his velvety voice echoes your greeting.

 _Fuck, that voice is pure sin_ — _can he tell how crazy fast your heart is beating?_ You hope not, as you try to keep shit strictly business. For now, at least, while you two are standing in front of your twelve-year-old son. "Checking in?"

"Yeah," he confirms;  _how the hell does he manage to pour so much sex into one simple word?_

Now you  _really_  need your kid out of the room so that you can start channeling your inner flirt. You ask Michael to go get his brother some dinner. He protests that he's helping a guest, but you silence his insolence with your go-to maternal grimace. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see what looks like a smug little smile on the Adonis's face as you walk over to take your child's place behind the desk.

"Two queens," Michael says with provocative emphasis, raising his brows at the guest before turning to leave the scene.

The stunning stranger lets out a little chuckle, low and quiet, that really has no business getting you so wet. "Funny kid."

"Oh yeah, he thinks so," you say, realizing now that your son had probably been insinuating that this guy and the tall dude outside are... together. And goddamnit, if that's true, then— _well... the thought of these two hunks fucking each other in your motel tonight gets you even wetter_. "Will that be cash or credit?"

"D'you take MasterCard?" the gorgeous god asks.

 _Yes, Master—and I know I'm not a guy, so might not be your type, but I'll still take it in the ass._ "Mm-hmm," you hum instead of saying that.

"Perfect," he murmurs, just like he is. He pulls out his plastic and slides it across the desk. "Here you go."

You steal a quick glance at the name on the card before running it.  _Kris Warren_. For some reason you can't fathom, the name just doesn't quite seem to fit him.

The card is declined. Kris is currently a bit distracted, looking behind you through the doorway into your apartment, so he doesn't notice. You're not sure why he's so enthralled by the sight of Michael making Asher's dinner, but whatever. You run the card a second time for good measure. No better.

"Sir?" you say, holding the card out toward him, needing to utter it again to capture his attention. That's fine by you—it feels damn good to address him by such a subservient term. "...Sir?"

His glowing green eyes blink as he comes back to the present moment. He thanks you, mistakenly thinking the card had gone through. When you tell him it hadn't, he frowns, tucking it back into his wallet and pulling another card out of it.

You glance at the name again. Pause and furrow your brows at him. "David Berkowitz? Thought the name's Kris..."

The Adonis clears his throat and bites his lip. "Yeah—this card is, uh..." he gestures behind him toward the other guy who's still standing outside, "...it's his."

The furrow in your brow deepens. "And you're carrying it? In your wallet?" you pry, knowing that you really shouldn't be making anything of this—it's none of your business—and you surely should  _not_  say the words that pop into your head next. But you just can't help it. "Guess you're the one who wears the pants, huh."

You can practically feel the guy's muscles tense. "Come again?"

 _Sir, I'll come as many damn times as you want._  You run his second card and struggle to control your aching cunt. "Oh, nothing..."

"Yeah, it fucking better have been nothing," he mutters beneath his breath.

Mr. Berkowitz's card doesn't go through, either. Whoever these two queens may be... you're really starting to wonder.

Kris grumbles as he reaches for his wallet again. "Well, sorry about that. Cash then."

You stop him. "Oh, don't bother, sir."

His emerald orbs blink at you, clueless and curious. "Hm?"

In this instant, the shameless bitch inside you has gotten an idea that you cannot dismiss or resist. So, for better or for worse, you are just gonna run with it. "I... I think the problem is actually just the machine, so—we can try your cards again tomorrow, once I've had it fixed," you suggest, smiling as you place your hand on his. 

 _Oh God his skin feels good. How is it that you're getting off on just placing your palm on his knuckles like this. Holy shit._  You're even more certain now, somehow: _no way his name is Kris._  You'll learn his real name soon.

He may not know it yet, but you do. You bat your lashes at him, speaking in a sultry coo. "For tonight, why don't I just... show you to your two queens' room?"

 

***************

 

 _Damn, the setup for this scene is so much like the steamy gay porno you watched just last week._ About two smoking hot studs falling in lust, rolling into the nearest motel for a quick fuck, both still in the closet and trying not to draw suspicion from the curious receptionist. To stay under the radar, they do just what these guys had done: request two beds instead of one. Funny enough, that's the title of the porno, actually—"Two Queens."

So, yeah, gay porn is kind of your thing. Not that you should be ashamed of it; there are plenty of sexual interests way more perverted than this.  _Sue me, I'm a lonely single MILF with a weird secret kink._ It makes total sense anyway, you think. You yourself are strictly into dick. So why watch some cunt bouncing all over one when instead you could watch  _two_ dicks going at it? Guys getting off on girl-on-girl action became mainstream ages ago, and this is no different. 

Add to that the fact that these are two of the drop-dead sexiest men you've ever seen—the taller one could give any paid actor a run for his money, and his companion is the living epitome of pure perfection—and there's really no way this evening could be heading in any other direction.

'Kris Warren' is striding beside you, 'David Berkowitz' trailing a slight ways behind. Something tells you that Kris is the dominant one, though, the top despite his shorter height, who will be getting behind his friend to ram his ass in no time.  _Good and hard, even better than your favorite filthy porn stars..._

"All right. Here we are," you tell them as you approach their room, shoving the key into the lock and giving it a twist, making a deliberate show of jiggling your wrist. Your motel doors are long overdue for a visit from the local locksmith; the locks are shit—this is the first time you've ever been glad about it. "As you can see, it's quite a...  _tight_ fit. But isn't that how we all like it?"

Kris gasps at those words, and at the way you shift just then so that your hip rubs up against his dick.  _By accident, of course—it's his fault for standing so close behind you as you wrestle with the door._  He sucks in a sharp hiss. "Shit..."

"Mind giving me a hand, sir?" you purr. "This door could sure use some big, strong body weight on it. You know, some... brute force."

The gorgeous bastard  _growls_ , and you're coming undone at the sound. "Now, are we talking about this door..." he whispers in your ear as he grinds into you from behind, reaching to lend a hand with the key, big first wrapping firmly around yours, "...or this dirty little whore?"

 _Fuuuck_. You actually wonder if he might be straight, for a split second, but in the next second the door swings open and he has your body pinned against the wall, and you're no longer able to think anything, at all...

"Sammy, why don't you go take a hike," he tells the taller guy standing outside. "Take your time."

The ability to think returns to you, then, just enough to notice how he had addressed his friend— _Sammy?_ You glance through the door to see that Sammy looks a bit grumpy, but is evidently going to comply. Scratch that, he's  _more_ than just a bit grumpy. He looks heartbroken as fuck. And you know exactly why.

Just like in "Two Queens," one of the gay lovers was more stubborn than the other about staying in the closet. That was part of the tension that porno had built, the twisted sense of conflict: the buildup toward the climactic moment. And now, this same X-rated flick is playing out before your eyes, this exact same heated scene. And better yet, now you're a part of it.  _This shit is straight out of your kinkiest dreams. You're the suspicious receptionist co-starring in Two Fucking Queens._

You can hear Sam grumble a response to his friend as he starts skulking off. "Sure thing, Dean."

Okay; so now you know both of their names. Their  _real_  names. It was rather amateur of them to blurt them out in front of you like this, you have to say. Especially given the issues that you'd had when running their credit cards through your machine.

Apparently they don't really care. And you can hardly blame Dean for that in this moment. But, in any event, Sammy's not going anywhere. 

You summon all of your self-control to pull away from Dean as he dives further into you, before he can reach behind him to slam the door shut. It feels so fucking  _good_ to be dominated by him, damn it—but you want what  _he_ wants. What he really wants. And you're pretty sure you know what that is.

"Sam, wait—" you call out as the shaggy-haired hulk turns away. 

Moving off of Dean in this instant, your body language is clear to him. Even clearer is the way that he respects it, letting go and stepping back, although he doesn't know the reason yet. And he looks confused as fuck, which is as understandable as it is adorable. You wonder how often any woman has  _ever_ been able to resist him; it's probably rare as hell, you figure, so you're pretty damn proud of yourself.

You try to keep your focus though, gathering your composure now as you continue talking to his friend. "Wait a minute. As... as I was about to tell Dean—or 'Kris' or whatever his name is—we, um... still have to discuss your payment."

Dean blinks. "But you said we're just gonna try the cards again, once your machine is fixed..."

"Yeah, that was bullshit," you bluntly admit. "That machine's working just fine. The problem's on your end, not mine. Now, I don't know if you stole those cards, or if Kris and David are sugar daddies who've decided to cut you off, or what—but we all know that you two are shady as fuck. And you're not gonna pay for this stay the conventional way."

Both guys' eyes are bulging super wide. They're not used to getting called out on their shit. At least not like this.

Dean clears his throat to break the momentary silence. "Um... like I said, ma'am, we've got cash—"

"Don't  _ma'am_  me," you snap. Sure, you're acting all sassy and authoritative now, but you're one hell of a submissive slut deep down. You walk up closer to him, close enough to see right past his parted lips, the wet pink tongue that glistens in his pretty little mouth. "You're  _sir_  to me, remember? And yeah, I'm sure you've got some cash, but... well, you've also got a damn fine ass."

He creases his brows. "Well, what the hell's your angle,  _ma'am_?" he asks defiantly. "This fine ass was making moves on you just now..."

"Oh, I know.  _Hardest_  thing I've ever had to resist," you tell him, completely honest, briefly eyeing the visible bulge in his jeans, the delicious outline of Dean's massive, hard dick.

"Yeah? Then why'd you do it, bitch?" he goads as he follows your gaze, his blazing green eyes setting fire to your face.

Resisting him right now requires all of your restraint, so much that it's causing you physical pain. You keep at it anyway. "Because I want  _more_ than just your ass tonight, gorgeous—I want you to take what  _you_  want," you confess, turning to look at Sam, who is still standing outside, hazel eyes still open wide, "...and that's  _his_."

You stare up at Dean as soon as you've said it, holding your breath in the silence that hangs on that word from your lips. Never in all your life have you seen anybody look so fucking  _pissed_.

And it's so fucking hot it's ridiculous. You're certain that he's gay, getting all furiously defensive like this—but  _damn_ , you wish he'd fuck you straight and rip you into pieces...

"Ugh, fuck this," he mutters, vehemently shaking his beautiful head. " _Fuck_  this. So now—now what, you wanna watch two dudes banging each other's brains out, huh? That how you get off? And let me guess, if we don't, you'll report us for credit card fraud?"

You're the one whose eyes widen now. No, you'd never said you would; you hadn't meant to threaten them like that. If you didn't know better, you would almost suspect Dean of maybe, just maybe, making that accusation to give him and his friend a good excuse to stick around and do exactly what you want.  _Maybe. Maybe only on a subconscious level or something. Maybe not._  "I, uh..."

"Yeah, real classy fucking operation you're running here,  _ma'am_ ," he rasps. "What would your two sons think of that."

 _Oh, that's a low blow. Hell to the no._ "Don't you  _dare_  bring them into this—"

"Why shouldn't I, bitch? Guess your son's 'two queens' bullshit is what got us into this whole goddamn mess."

Sam chimes in just then, taking a step toward the open doorway. "Dean..."

"Back the  _fuck_  up, Sam," Dean barks furiously.

For what looks to you like it must be the first time, Sammy doesn't listen. " _No_ , Dean," he disobeys, stepping inside swiftly and slamming the door closed behind him as he reaches up to cup his lover's cheek.

Before you or Dean can even begin to react to what is happening, Sam leans in and buries his head in the other man's neck, lips latching onto bare skin in an openmouthed kiss as he sucks in a deep breath, drowning in his most beloved scent.

 _Oh my God that is so beautiful and_ hot _and you're so soaking fucking wet..._

"Sammy..." Dean whispers, voice weak as his trembling hands take a hold of his lover's broad shoulders. It's clear that he wishes he had the strength to push the man away, but his own hands betray—he's just pulling him closer.

"Need you so bad, Dean," Sam breathes, pushing his body up against the wall, firmly yet oh so gently, cradling the Adonis like the treasure that he is. So perfect, so painfully precious. Wanting nothing but to worship and caress the one his heart will always cherish. "You know I do. Fucking love you. God, I—I'm so sorry. But I'm  _not_ , Dean."

You step back a bit then, letting this glorious scene unfold in front of you, speechless as you take it all in.  _Seriously straight out of one of your wet fucking dreams. An infinitely hotter and more passionate production of "Two Queens"..._

" _Sammy_..." every time that name slips past Dean's lips is such a desperate, dying plea. But a plea for what, exactly? Does he even know what he wants? What he needs?

"Just— _fuck_ —" Sam grunts hungrily as the other man's hips thrust forward into his, just the slightest bit, a quick jerking motion that couldn't possibly have been on purpose; totally spontaneous, of course it was, obviously, "...just be honest with me, Dean.  _Please_."

" _Fuck_ , Sammy..." Dean gasps as the mouth pleading with him drops sensuous kisses all over his tight, gasping throat.

"You know I'd never take what you won't give. Those lips I'd fucking  _die_  to kiss, I just... I won't. I couldn't do it," Sammy tells him as his mouth drifts slightly upward to the tender skin beneath his lover's chin. "But the way you—the way you give in to everything else, every other damn thing,  _every_  time this happens, it's...  _God_ , Dean, what d'you think that does to me? How the hell am I supposed to live?"

By this point, you've collapsed breathless into a chair that's thankfully nearby, listening to every unfiltered, unscripted word and watching with unblinking eyes. Your hand has slid between your thighs as every kinky voyeuristic dream you've ever had comes vividly to life. You're usually more into the hardcore kind of shit—just seeing one man's meaty ass getting pounded rough and fast by the other's massive dick—but  _this_? This homoerotic masterpiece that's so raw, so realistic, so pure it's poetic? This shit is fucking stunning. Fucking priceless.

"Love you so much it kills. And you let—you let it happen. Every fucking time, you give in. Don't you get it, Dean? You're killing me," he murmurs into Dean's chiseled jawline as he reaches for one of his hands and their seamlessly synchronized fingers begin, with a will of their own, to slowly intertwine. "Fucking  _killing_  me."

Dean shuts his eyes, tight, praying to unseen skies though he doesn't know why. "I—I'm so sorry, Sammy..."

 _Shit_ , you think then as you notice something painfully exquisite— _that's a fucking teardrop gleaming at the corner of Dean's eye_. And it's so pure you could just  _die_. One perfect tear. Afraid to spill, spilling to spite the fear.

Sammy tastes it in a kiss, tender and sweet, the silent surrender that streams down Dean's cheek. "Just tell me you don't want this," he begs in earnest. "Tell me you want me to stop. Make me believe it. Honest. And I will; I'll stop this. Promise."

Dean bites his lip, so hard it stays white for what feels like a lifetime once he releases it. "Sammy..."

"Tell me," Sam continues to plead, as the heat building between their bodies makes them both weak in the knees. "Dean. Just fucking  _tell me_."

"Sam..."

" _Tell me_."

"Damn it, Sam, just— _no_..."

You can see, can practically  _feel_ , the very air whipped from Sam's lungs as that word falls from his lover's tongue. Can hear his heart crack as he sinks to the floor, as if with no reason to beat anymore. His head is bowed down, fringe of dark brown hair hiding his face as he buries his head in the space between his lover's knees, so close yet never farther from the holy grail he craves.

And his isn't the only heart that breaks. Dean reaches down to cradle Sam's head in both hands, holding it like the sacred thing it is as he descends to kneel before him, face to face again.

It feels like you're no longer even in the room with them—these two men are, and have so clearly always been, each other's entire world. You feel blessed just to witness such a love as this.

"Sammy—Sam..." Dean keeps on saying the name as he leans in closer, sweat-beaded forehead pressed against his lover's. 

If you didn't know better, in this moment, you would almost think they were—it's crazy to even imagine, but...  _brothers_. 

Dean is shuddering like every breath is his last. "I meant—I meant  _no_ , I won't say it," he whispers, eyes falling shut again, unable to meet his brother's gaze as he holds his face, his whole world, in his hands. "Won't tell you I don't... want..."

Though you can't see Sam's hazel eyes from here, you know exactly what they're asking, as Dean's green gaze finally opens now to answer his brother's unspoken question.  _Why not?_

He doesn't need to answer that aloud. And yet he does. For better and for worse, the truth feels real now as he lets it out. "Because I can't." 

The words are followed with a kiss. On Sam's cheek—even after that confession,  _especially_  after that, still just on the cheek, wet with the bitter tear that drips. Because in this moment, now that he's said it, Dean desperately needs to feel safe, and there's no safety on his brother's lips.

He kisses away every tear that escapes from his lover's closed lids, knowing that he's the reason, the cause for each one. The fault is  _always_  fucking his. "I won't... I can't lie to you, Sammy. Not about this."

You notice now that their hands are clasped, fingers beginning to seamlessly intertwine again. It's fucking beautiful. And on a level that transcends sex, so much more than just watching gay porn, or even incest—if that's what this is, as your wild imagination had suspected for a second—whatever happened, they're just fucking holding hands. And you are  _deeply_  getting off on that.

Dean is reminded now of why he always hides.  _No way in hell the truth can be a good thing when it feels so goddamn bad._  He knows, all too well, that soon enough he'll lie right through his teeth again. That's how it always ends. 

But just for now, he won't. He  _can't_. He tells his brother so, and means it in this moment, as he holds his heart, his whole world in his hand. "Fucking can't."

 

***************

 

The brothers—or friends, or whatever they were, before they became lovers—surrender that night to each other, on one of the two queen beds in this room, in this shabby motel that you run. You can tell that it's not their first time. Maybe that's why they're fine letting you watch, getting off in this chair, like they don't even mind. And they  _don't_ , you realize—it's as if you're not even here, and that's the only reason you still are. That's why.

It's not their first time—not the first time Dean buries himself in his brother so deep as to get lost inside, losing himself till he's found, until in becomes out, damned again and again till he's saved—but it  _is_  the first time, in a way. It's more than just the way Dean gives in to each wholehearted kiss on the lips. It's something...  _else_ , and you can't put your finger on it. But you shouldn't have to. It's none of your business. You're just here to bear witness, and it's a fucking privilege, and you've got no right to wonder about what's beneath the surface. Not as if that stops you. But it should. So you'll pretend it does.

It's none of your business the way Dean shatters when he feels he's finally saved, coming harder than ever as his heart breaks, as he looks down at his brother and sees someone else's face. A face he doesn't even know, not yet—the face of a familiar stranger, an angel that he was supposed to forget.

_No. No. I asked... I prayed to you to guide me through this. Not to do this. Not this. No. How could you fucking do this. Was... was it you? Did you even make me do this? Who are... how am I supposed to... God, I know it's my fault, all of it, but I thought—I thought... guess I thought wrong. Fuck. That's all I've ever been, all along._

This goddamn shtriga in town, this evil creature that he hates so much, the son of a bitch that almost killed his baby brother... hell, Dean hates himself  _so_  fucking much more. That monster may have  _almost_  killed Sammy—for which was Dean was to blame anyway—but Dean... Dean actually does kill his brother. Not almost; he just straight up  _does_. He breaks Sam's heart, crushes his soul, fucking slays him to pieces in the worst possible way. Every damn day.

But none of that troubled shit running through Dean's head is your business. Hell, you don't even notice. All you see now is two queens, two kings among men, lost in one another, in body and in soul completely spent, in love and in lust and in every damn way so impossibly perfect. You're not sure how many minutes pass before Dean finally lifts himself off of Sam, the slightest bit, shifting and blinking in a way that makes him register your presence.

You don't know what to say; thankfully you had recently taken your hand out of your pants. It feels like you have to say something, so you manage what you can. "You... you two are  _so_  fucking beautiful."

Dean blinks again. And when his eyes open, it's honestly as if he's a completely different man. "Thanks, but—well, Sam ain't got nothin' on you, ma'am."

That couldn't possibly make less sense, after what you've just witnessed. And the freakiest thing is that Dean seems to really mean it, in its moment, as he pulls nonchalantly off of his brother's body, stands from the queen bed and starts crossing the room. Toward you. 

 _What the... who even is this dude?_ You're well aware that sexual orientation isn't a binary thing, so it shouldn't come as too much of a shock that Dean apparently really does dig fucking women. But... but that isn't even what this is about. It just  _isn't._

"Wait..." you murmur once his irresistible bare naked body is inches away from the chair where you're sitting. Somehow you still summon the strength to resist him. "What—what I saw, just then, was... I don't even know what there is between you two, but... that was something fucking  _real_."

His sculpted shoulders lift up in a lighthearted shrug. "Sure, let's say it was," he humors you before leaning in close, bending down to brush his luscious lips against your throat. 

You're vaguely aware of Sam rising from the bed, shrugging into his clothes. Whatever Dean's about to tell you, Sam already knows.

"If it was real, then  _this_..." Dean hisses, and  _oh shit_ , that thing his mouth is doing to your skin is so much more than just some kiss.  _No way in hell now you'll be able to resist._  "...is how I deal. It's how I heal. And now—you filthy fucking bitch—I'm gonna show you just how good it feels."

And at that, your fate is sealed. 

Sam exits the room like it's nothing.

Dean may have just been one of two queens... but for the rest of this fine evening, he's your fucking king.

 

***************

 

Dean Winchester buries things. He smothers them. It's what he does.

But after this whole shtriga thing is finally done, and after what he had let happen in one of those two queen beds between them, he knows that it's time for a talk.  _The_  talk. He knows that he owes Sammy that much. At least that much.

He's bound to fuck this up, and to be less than totally honest about it. But he'll count it as a win if he can manage to be even a little bit honest. Like, a solid, respectable two percent.

Dean figures the conversation will go something like this.

"Sammy, I... I love you, man, but it's just... I dunno. I love women more, I guess."

Cue a round of Sam's awkward puppy dog silence.

Dean will come up with more sappy, two-percent-honest crap to say. "I mean, I love you more than anyone or anything,  _ever_ , past or present—and you know that, but... but just not in  _that_ way."

Pregnant pause.  _God, Dean really hates that sick term, 'pregnant pause'_... but he'll admit that's what this one is. One he's eager to break.

"So, we okay?"

"Of course, Dean. We're great. Thanks."

"Thanks for what? The fact that me just—just  _existing_ has completely fucked you up?"

"Well, yeah. That. I'm a sick son of a bitch, so I kind of love being fucked up like this."

Another pause, less pregnant.

"But really, Dean, I meant... thank you for talking about it. For opening up a bit and being honest. With me. And with yourself, hopefully."

Dean will smile like he means it and start walking away because he's so done with all this caring and sharing shit.

Sammy will chime in. "You shouldn't hate yourself so much. Take the fall for every damn thing. It's not like you're to blame for just so beautifully existing."

"Yeah, well, if not me, then whose fault is it?"

Sam will shrug, all big and stupid. "Dunno. God, I guess? Or Mom and Dad?"

"Very funny, Sam."

"I'm serious. You shouldn't blame yourself. For  _any_ of this."

"Thanks, Sammy. That's real sweet."

"It's the truth, Dean."

"Sure. For you, maybe." 

_But not for me._

Yeah, it'll go something like that. That's the talk that he and Sam have to have. Soon, maybe. Eventually.

It's not the talk that ends up happening today, after Dean and Sam say a friendly goodbye to you and your two sons, pausing before they hop in the Impala and drive away. 

Because there's a voice inside Dean's head that wants to talk to him instead. Every time the voice swoops in— _and fucking deafens him_ —Dean can never fully understand, never quite put into words what he has heard. But somehow still he can answer. Every word.

 _Damn it, Cas. Or whatever your name is. Do you spell it with one 's' or two? You know what, forget it—you can shove all of the s's up your feathered ass. After what happened, what you made me do to Sammy, I... I am_ never _gonna pray to you again. Sure, go ahead, tell me how you were trying to make me accept something else. How somebody else is supposed to be my 'queen', how it's my fault for misreading your messages. Like I don't already know it is. Why the hell'd you have to show up and screw everything over like this. Huh? Oh, don't go telling me hell has nothing to do with it, 'cause you're an angel of the Lord from high heaven and all that bullshit. Fuck you, Cas(s). You son of a bitch._

_Now get out of my ass._

 

__

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all are still enjoying this fic!! The end of Season 1 is already approaching soonish...
> 
> Always love hearing from you in kudos and comments <3


	19. (S01E19) Special Skills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 19 ("Provenance")*
> 
> *In which you are Brandi with an 'i', the wannabe reality TV star that Dean picks up in some bar*
> 
> The flawless motherfucker hitting on you at the bar is pulling some bullshit about making you a reality TV star. He wants to know if you've got any special skills.
> 
> You're down to play his game, because he looks so good it hurts, and hurts so bad it kills, and well... you've got a thing for pain.

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 19 ("Provenance")***

***In which you are Brandi with an 'i', the wannabe reality TV star that Dean picks up in some bar***

 

 

So...  _that_ happened. A super intimate, passionate lovemaking session.  _With his goddamned baby brother._

No thanks to that maddening voice in his head, sending signals that Dean had obviously misread. How was he supposed to know that Castiel was trying to help him accept some other love instead? Love for someone he hasn't even met?  _Cryptic celestial motherfucker_. In any event, what went down the other night in that motel... well, it's something he is never gonna forget. And won't ever get over.

And that puts it way up top on the long list of shit that Dean Winchester is determined to smother.

In some super twisted way, maybe that...  _incident_ will make everything better. Easier. In all the days since then, Sam hasn't been hinting at anything remotely incestuous or gay, for whatever that's worth. And last night when they swung by a truck stop for a quick bite—which, for Dean, had inevitably turned into a full-on greasy dinner—as he stepped out of the men's room, he could've sworn he spotted his kid brother smiling at the waitress, attempting to flirt. Sammy was coming across like some big tall awkward turtle, so of course it didn't work. But whatever. Maybe ever since what happened on that queen bed, shit has suddenly become too real for both of them; maybe Sam is finally trying to get over his obsession with his brother.  _Maybe_ , Dean dares to think,  _maybe the incident isn't without its perks_.

At any rate, Dean is gonna make it his mission to get Sam laid—by a girl—during their stay here in upstate New York. As for himself? Well... he walks into this bar tonight and spots you right away, and  _damn_ , you've got dirty whore written all over your face, and look so good it hurts.  _Just what the doctor fucking ordered_. He starts toward his prey, lips curving up into his ladykiller smirk. 

The younger Winchester may be an amateur flirt, but his big bro is a pro. Dean knows he doesn't need a game to get into your pants—scratch that, your slutty little skirt—but he already has one planned. And he already knows how well it's gonna work.

 

***************

 

"Really?" you ask the fine snack who has been macking on you for the past minute and a half.

'Fine' doesn't really cut it; he is fucking  _stunning_. Forget snack—he's a whole damn buffet. Every feature on his face perfectly placed, sex and swagger blazing through his veins, a big hunk of biceps and shoulders and bowlegs for days... you sort of wish he'd turn around, to give you an excuse to check out what you don't doubt is the world's most perfect ass. You haven't even seen it yet you're already obsessed.

His name is Dean, apparently, and he's a scout scoping out talent for reality TV. You believe him—about his name. But not about his bullshit scouting claim. You came here looking like a bimbo, tits popping out of your low-cut top, so if he thinks that he can pull one over you, he's probably not to blame. And though you're really not as stupid as you look... if Dean wants you to be dumb, then hell, you've never read a book. You're more than down to play his game.

But you're not sure just how perceptive this guy is.  _Can he tell that you're on to him, and just going along with his charade? Or does he think he's got you played? Does he really think he's_ that  _good at manipulating skanks? Which is the biggest—his ego, his dick, or his brain?_

It hits you in this moment that, for him, those three things are probably all one and the same.

Dean places another drink order and leans in a little bit closer. "Now, sweetheart... would I ever lie to somebody as stunningly pretty as you?"

You lick your lips and lean in too, flaunting your nearly naked tits, giving your predator a better view. "I dunno, scout. Depends what you're trying to do."

The sound he makes just now—is that a  _growl_?  _God, he is so insanely hot. A filthy fucking animal_.

"Well, like I told you," his velvety voice croons, "just trying to get to know you, Brandi."

His husky utterance of your name has made you dizzy.  _You need him to fuck you silly._ "As in... to know me biblically?"

"Hmm, maybe. Tell me, baby—these talents of yours. That's what I'm scouting for. Tell me about all your special skills," he inquires, each bat of his lustrous lashes setting you on fire with desire. "Are any of them, you know...  _biblical_?"

_Oh, this is gonna be so fun_. You already have a skill in mind, but you pretend to think, sipping your drink, taking your time. "Well—I can, um... tie a cherry stem into a tight double knot with my tongue."

He watches as you pull the cherry from your glass, plucking the stem, then slipping it between your lips. His brows lift up a bit, head dipping down to chug a swig of beer from his own cup. "Double knot, huh?"

You nod with a grin as your tongue does its thing. Tugging the double-knotted stem out from between your teeth, you proudly hold it up. "Yup. Gotta do one better than all the other sluts."

Dean sets down his mug and licks a frothy drop of white foam off his upper lip.  _Fuck, you wish you could've done that for him._  And that smirk of his shows that he knows it. "So you're a self-proclaimed slut?" he asks, reaching to take the tied up cherry stem you're holding, rolling the wet little thing in his grasp. "Hell, that's a skill in itself." 

Then he pops the stem in his mouth. Toys with it for a few seconds. And when he pulls it out, your double knot is totally undone.  _Damn._  

Still smirking, he drops the straightened stem back in your drink, smug on the fact that you aren't the only one here with a talented tongue. "Guess your double knot wasn't quite... tight enough."

_Ugh._ He may have won that battle, but you shrug it off. "Oh trust me, Dean—it could've been. I just figured you'd try to untie it, and... wanted to give you a shot."

"Hmm. I get the sense you'll give me anything I want," he teases wickedly, those words hitting you right in your dripping wet cunt. "So tell me, sweetheart. What else you got."

You try to keep your shit together, but  _God, he is so hot it's blowing your mind_. "Well," you begin, sipping your drink again. It tastes so much  _better_ now, somehow, as if infused with this hot stranger's sinful flavor, from the stem that he had taken in his mouth. You lap the lingering liquid from your lips as you set your glass down. "I can... uh... hold my breath for a really long time."

He quirks his brows, holding your gaze steady and strong. "That so? Like how long?"

"How long? I could ask you the same question, hot shot," you purr as you lean in even closer, till you can see the freckles on his cheeks, the five-o-clock shadow along his chiseled jaw. You're supposedly answering him about holding your breath, but his bulging erection is what you  _really_  want to get a hold on. "I can hold it as long as you want."

Dean lets out one of those feral growls again. It's more than you can stand. "Now  _that_ 's what I call talent. As for your question—tell you what. I'll show you just how long, you naughty little whore..." he taunts, talking less about your talent now and more about the length of his hard cock, "...if you gimme just one more. One more special skill of yours."

"Hmm," you hum as visions of his massive dick run through your head, his closeness drowning you in his intoxicating scent. Everything about this man gets you  _so_  soaking wet. "Well, Dean, this—this talent is sort of a... dirty secret."

He takes another drink and flashes you a wink. "Babe, dirty secret's my middle name."

"Well okay, then," you say, your arousal almost too much to contain. "My best skill is that... I've got a  _really_ fucking high tolerance for pain."

Dean pauses for a second and purses his beautiful lips. "That's it? Don't get me wrong, Brandi, that's great but... gotta say, I was expecting something a bit—"

"Oh, sir, I wasn't finished," you butt in, pressing one of your hands against his thigh, so full of longing to rip off his jeans and worship what's inside. "If I tell you the rest of my deepest, dirtiest secret... can you keep it?"

He fucking growls again. Every time he does that makes you come the fuck undone. "Sweetheart, I'll keep it as long as you want."

And those words from him are a wide open invitation. You go in for the kill then. "Good. 'Cause I was gonna say—that I've got a really,  _insanely_  fucking high tolerance for pain..." you finish your sentence in a sultry whisper, angling your head to breathe it straight into his ear, letting the filthy words fall off your tongue, "... _in my cunt_."

Dean practically spits out his beer, barely managing to keep most of it in his mouth, then swallowing it as you nibble the lobe of his ear. You can hear his big gulp loud and clear as your thirsty lips drop down to press kisses against his throat. " _Damn_ , girl. You are just my kind of slut."

You're well aware that you are still in public, so you let up soon enough, pulling back and hoping he is ready now to take you home and fuck you up.

But then his green eyes wander toward something—or someone—behind you, all of a sudden. And what he says next is not at all what you'd expected. "One more thing. You, uh... you got a friend in here, by any chance? A hot friend?"

Your face instantly turns down into a catty frown.  _What now—even after all that buildup, he doesn't think you're enough?_ "I don't do threesomes," you huff. Which is a blatant lie, but  _goddamnit, you want this perfect piece of ass all to yourself. You've fucking earned it._

Dean shakes his pretty head. "Nah, that's not what I meant."

_Oh, thank God_. Relief washes over you; now you're free to tell him the truth. "I see. Then yeah, I do."

His eyes widen, hopeful and bright, and it's so fucking cute. "Really? She as 'skilled' as you?"

_No way in hell_ , you think, glancing at your slutty blonde roommate standing nearby. She ain't got half your talents. But she's your BFF, and it would be bitchy of you to undersell _._ "Well..."

"Never mind; doesn't matter. As long as she's a woman. Oh, and—this friend..." he pauses, eyes darting somewhere over your shoulder again, "...how does she feel about freakishly tall men?"

You turn and follow Dean's gaze now to see a cute, shaggy-haired guy staring pointedly at him. It's hard to tell when he's sitting down alone, but you figure that must be the tall one. And he's goodlooking enough that you feel comfortable making this statement on your roomie's behalf. "You mean emo-hair over there? Yeah, she would definitely jump his bones."

" _Perfect_ ," Dean gushes, visibly excited. You find it funny how he's so intent on setting up his friend. The guy has probably been making gay moves on him or something, you imagine. "He's, um—he's my scouting partner. Name's Sam. Listen; why don't you tell your friend about him, and I'll tell him about her. Ah, first let me grab your number..."

_Ugh. Does he have to draw out the wait even more?_ You scowl at him as he orders a couple of beers from the bartender. "Well, you can grab a hell of a lot more than just my number, sir."

"Oh, I know, baby girl. And I will. Trust me," he reassures you smoothly as he reaches for his cell. "I'll be back in a minute. Here, just gimme your digits."

You're in the mood to snap back with some sass, a little bit. "Why should I need to if you'll be back in a minute?"

"Don't be a bitch," he snarls, those words off of his lips making your pussy twitch. "I'm taking your digits in case some other jerk sweeps you up while I'm gone. Can't have you running off without a way to track you down again. You're too fucking perfect to take that risk."

Blush rises to your cheeks, and you suddenly feel all dumb and giddy, though you struggle not to show it. "Aww, thank you, sir—'perfect'? Do you always butter up your sluts like this?"

He shakes his head, ready to take your number in his phone. "Nope. Only pretty little cunts with certain... special talents. Now gimme your goddamn number, bitch, or I promise—you ain't gonna like your punishment."

_Holy shittttt_. You're quite certain that, whatever it is, you would fucking love it. But Dean already knows that you'll cave into his demands and give him anything he wants.  _Your digits, and your dignity, your entire body, every single inch of it, especially your kinky fucking cunt..._

Once he has your number, he asks if your name is spelled with a 'y' or an 'i'. Not gonna lie—you're kind of flattered that he even thinks it matters. You tell him it's the latter. He chuckles, clearly digging that. 'Cause it's the stripper answer. Dean fucking loves strippers; few things in life get his dick wetter. 

Tonight, you are gonna be one of those things. Although you don't strip for a living, you both know that you're a painslut with literally no limits. And for a dominant sadist like Dean... that is even better.  _Way_ fucking better.

 

***************

 

_Please, Sam,_ please  _will you just do this. Pretty please? For me? Come on Sammy, don't you love me? Well okay, guess I shouldn't frame it that way..._

Dean goes for a somewhat more subtle angle. He suggests to Sam that they should take a little break from chasing cases. Gestures over toward where you are, still sitting at the bar. "What do you think, huh? I'm so in the door with this one..." 

Sam sighs in typical exasperation. "So what are we today, Dean, are we... rock stars? Are we army rangers?"

"Reality TV scouts, looking for people with special skills," Dean tells him, unable to hold in the laughter that spills. "I mean hey, it's not that far off, right? By the way—she's got a friend over there. Possibly hook you up. What do you think?"

He holds his breath for half a second.  _Say yes, Sammy. Just do it. Man up and fuck that slut, goddamnit..._

"Dean," his brother groans his name in that characteristic way that makes it clear that he's not gonna fucking do it. "No thanks. I can get my own dates."

_Ugh, damn it, Sam._ "Yeah, you can. But you don't."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Sam snaps defensively.

_As if you don't fucking know._  "Nothing," Dean grumbles, brushing it off. "What you got?"

He hastens to change the subject. Tries to focus on Sam's description of recent events that might suggest a case for them—or so the younger Winchester suspects—and on happy thoughts. Like the fact that he is so gonna get laid tonight, even if Sammy is not.  _Happy thoughts. Come on, Dean, happy thoughts. Like torturing the shit out of that sweet little painslut. Punishing her tight wet cunt till she gets off, making her beg and plead for cock. God, she is so fucking hot. Filthy dirty kinky happy thoughts..._

 

***************

 

Every nerve in your body is tingling with anticipation. Desperation for the pain that you've been craving. Dean can't keep his paws off you as you step out of his ridiculously sexy car and guide him up to your apartment, and the touch of his rough hands upon your skin is so arousing that it's agonizing. Your roomie graciously agreed to let you have the place all to your own tonight; no doubt she went home with some random guy, someone other than Dean's giant friend, who apparently wasn't feeling well and just went back to their hotel. 

You had almost asked Dean why he didn't take you back to his own room—he and his scouting partner are staying at some swanky five-star place, or so he claims, since that's how well his fancy job pays—but you opted not to mention it, realizing quickly enough that it's obviously bullshit. You don't know what Dean's real deal is, but you just couldn't care less. If he prefers your place to his, no matter the reason, then he can be your fucking guest.

Once you've reached your floor, you guide him down the hall toward your front door. A yelp of shock escapes you then, because as soon as you are there, Dean slams your body hard into the solid surface, firm chest pressed against your back, growling into your neck, left hand grabbing a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, right hand pushing up your skirt as his thick forefinger attacks your throbbing clit.  _Holy mother of shit_...

" _Fuck_ —no panties, huh? So wet for me already. Dirty bitch," he teases, snickering against your heated skin, tasting your racing pulse beneath his lips. "You know you're too hot to resist. Gonna make you come out in the hallway like this..."

At this point your thoughts are just a slutty stream of consciousness.  _Oh my God he is so hot is he for serious?_

"Is that what you want?" he whispers, two fingers suddenly invading your tight cunt, as his deep voice invades your ear. "Say it, slut. Want the neighbors to hear."

" _Yes_...!" you gasp as he grinds his denim-clad dick hard against your trembling ass. "Yes! Make me come, Dean— please..."

"What's that?" he rasps. The two fingers inside you turn to three. "What the fuck did you call me?"

You rush to correct yourself instantly. " _Sir!_  Sir, I'm so sorry..."

"Oh, you will be," Dean huffs, dropping his left hand from your head to choke your throat instead.

And  _fuck_ , that sounds and feels so good—you drop the keys that you'd been holding, beyond caring as they clatter to the floor.

A wicked laugh slips past your master's perfect lips. "Clumsy fucking whore," he sneers, taking a couple of steps back away from the door. "Bend over for me and fetch your keys."

He lets go of your neck, hand sliding down your back as you begin to do his bidding, bending at the waist and reaching down with your right hand—

_Smack_. Dean's hand comes down hard against your ass; thankfully, your skirt has already been pushed up high enough that his sweet punishment is dealt against bare skin, making you quake in pleasure at the painful contact. "I said  _fetch_ ," he repeats. "Like a bitch. With your teeth."

Awestruck at how goddamn hot he is, you lower your desperate face down toward the ground, while his three fingers in your pussy continue to plunge and pound. "Yes, Master, I—I'm so sorry..."

"Sorry for what?" he taunts as your mouth hits the floor, watching you take the keys in your teeth like some groveling mutt. "For being a dumb fucking whore? Or a filthy painslut?"

"B-both, sir," you mutter through your metallic mouthful, keeping your face down at your doorstep, one cheek pressed against the dirty surface. It feels like you  _belong_  down here, as his pathetic little pet. So you don't want to lift your head just yet.

"Mmm. That's what I thought," your master sneers, dealing another sharp slap to your rear. "Now I'm gonna shove another finger up your cunt. And you're gonna come. You got that, bitch?"

" _God_ , yes—thank you, sir..." you sigh, grinding your hips harder against his brutal hand, hips wriggling on instinct.

"Don't thank me yet," Dean smirks, wasting no time forcing in his fourth finger, pumping in and out harder and faster than ever, taking you to heaven with the way it hurts. "Now come for me, whore. Nice and wet. Go ahead, be a good little pet. Wanna feel this pussy squirt. Dripping all over my fucking fingers. Ugh  _shit_ , yeah that's it..."

Your body obeys on the instant, convulsing beneath him in bliss as his talented digits work their dirty magic, twisting and twirling deep inside your soaking, squirting slit. Nothing that you've experienced has ever been so exquisite, so excruciatingly perfect. That's just what Dean Winchester does. What he  _is_. You're not sure how you'll ever feel pleasure again, after this. But just having him in this moment is so fucking worth it.

"Fuck.  _Fuck_ ," he grunts, left palm upon your hips to keep you steady, or at least to keep your body from collapsing in a heap. You're pretty sure that your explosive juices must've drenched more than just Dean's dominant hand—some probably splashed onto his pants, the floor beneath both of your feet. 

The two of you have still been in the hallway all this time, but you've been too blissed out, too facedown on the ground, to have noticed if any of your neighbors may have passed by or peeked out from their apartments to witness this shameless semi-public sex. You kind of hope they did, because you're kinky and more than a little twisted. And so is Dean, apparently, given how into this he seems.  _This savage god is seriously straight out of your wildest dreams..._

"Fucking  _perfect_ ," he groans from the guttural depths of his throat, those four fingers of his still buried deep inside your slit as wave after wave of euphoria hits, each one making you drip like a faucet and fucking explode. "So wet.  _Ugh._ Now get up—get that door open, slut. Gonna take you to bed. Know I ain't done with you yet..."

Your throaty groan echoes his own as you struggle to raise yourself up off the ground, taking the keys from your mouth to unlock the door. It's a lot harder than it should be, right about now—lost in a dizzy haze, drained and dazed, you can't really see straight anymore...

Now that you're upright again, Dean's firm torso is pressed against your back, and he growls impatiently into your gasping neck. "Come  _on_ , you fucking klutz," he mocks, left hand coming around to grip your fumbling fist in his, lending a dominant assist. "Shove it deep in the lock. Push and twist. Yeah, like this. Just like these fingers in your cunt. Maybe if you're a good bitch I'll shove in my cock."

" _Fuuuck!_ " you shriek, a second orgasm erupting from the words that you just heard, floodgates bursting in your core just as the door before you suddenly bursts open too. 

Dean barrels in, slamming the door loudly behind him and smashing you against the nearest wall in the same instant, fingers somehow not even leaving your cunt as he swivels you swiftly around so that you're facing him, breathless as you behold his perfection, mind blown by the way he so beautifully brutalizes you, manhandling your body in a way that you know only he can do.

"So. Fucking.  _Perfect_ ," he grunts as he begins to dominate you from the front, left hand grappling with your skimpy top, tugging and yanking at the straps until he's torn it off. Growling with feral arousal, he bends his head to start sucking your tits, biting your stiff nipples and sensitive flesh, ravenous and rough, all while his right hand keeps on hammering your slit. Four thick fingers in deep, to the hilt. "You want more, slut? Want me to shove this whole fist up your tight little cunt?"

_Shit_ —you should've figured this was coming, after boasting to Dean about how much intense pain your pussy can take. But you've never let any man push his hand in all the way. To be honest, fisting has just never been your thing. Then again... you know that you'd be down for that, for  _any_  new kink, with this godly gorgeous king.

Dean senses your jolt of reluctance, quick and slight though it had been. He pulls back from your chest for a second to study your face, burning you up with the heat of his gaze, slowly licking his full bottom lip. "Mmm. You look scared, sweetheart, yet you're fucking soaking wet. Know you want it," he states as he then unexpectedly slips his four fingers right out of your pussy, letting your lingering juices leak onto the floor of the foyer, smirking as you whimper at the sudden absence, the aching absolute emptiness. "But I've got a better idea, bitch."

Before you can even think to imagine what that is, he tells you. And he shows you. Takes your tender, swollen clit between his thumb and forefinger and gives it a firm pinch. The way he only would because he  _knows_  this kind of thing is just your kink.

His smirk darkens as he leans in, free hand gripping your chin to hold your face in place in front of him, pearly teeth nibbling your twitching lower lip. He murmurs words into your mouth so you can taste them as you listen. "Gonna torture your clit. The most sensitive part of this sweet little cunt. While you service and submit to me in every way I want. Yeah, you're gonna put all your special skills to use, slut. All at once."

_This. Is. Too. Damn. Much._  Already again, you feel your core tighten, all set to come undone...

"And you know what the most painful part of this is gonna be?" Dean snarls cruelly, pausing between sentences to tease your drooling lips with his devilish tongue.  _God, he is treating your mouth like it's a dripping fucking cunt..._  "That you don't get to come. Not until you have my fucking permission."

_Fucking hell_. Of course this won't be the first time you've been subjected to orgasm denial. After so much practice, and given your famously high pain tolerance, you're good at controlling yourself. Good at being a good little girl. 

Yet you've never been edged by the likes of Dean Fucking Winchester. 

_Just one look at his fine flawless face, just one hit of his masculine scent, or his heavenly taste, just one touch, just one word..._  each of those things just in itself is too perfect it hurts, all powerful enough to throw you off the cliff of self-control and make you squirt. He is so far beyond anyone you've ever fucked, or ever met. And he so obviously knows it.  _Oh, this is gonna be the fucking worst. Pure, utter torture..._

And that is exactly what this little painslut signed up for.

There's still one question that you have to ask your master, though you think you know the answer. "But sir... what if I don't listen? If I can't obey the way you want?" you moan as he keeps on teasing your clit between finger and thumb. "Then what's my punishment?"

Dean growls into your ear, knowing that sound will turn you on just as much as his obvious response. "Oh, trust me—you don't wanna know, you naughty little cunt."

And then, next thing you know, he hauls you up off of your feet like you don't weigh a thing—to a big strong stud like him, you probably don't—and flings you over his broad shoulder like a rag doll as he heads straight for your room. He's never been in your apartment, but somehow he knows exactly which bedroom is yours. Can probably pick up on the aura of pain-hungry slut that fills the space behind your door. Sure, your roommate is a whore, too; but she doesn't live for kinky, masochistic sex the way you do.

Dean throws you violently onto your bed as soon as he enters the room. You sigh in ecstasy as your back crashes down against the sheets, and as he makes quick work of ripping off whatever little clothes remain on both of your bodies, leaving you speechless with the wild aggression that animates his every move.

You may be speechless in this moment, but Dean definitely isn't. He keeps up a steady stream of dirty talk, leering as you gape in awe at his enormous unleashed cock, and you already know that every word of what he says is true. "See, I know a thing or two about sick, twisted painsluts like you. Think you'd like it when I punish your ass. Fucking want me to. But you've got no idea what  _real_ punishment,  _real_ torture is, do you. Not a damn clue," he sneers as his sadistic stare devours and destroys you through and through. "Well, I sure as hell do."

"I need your cock sir," you suddenly blurt, though you know you're not supposed to. The sight of Dean stark naked, straddling your chest and stroking his massive dick in his fist, summons these desperate words to your lips and you just can't resist. " _God_ , it's perfect. Please, Master,  _please_  choke me with it, let me fucking worship—"

Dean shuts you up with a hard slap across the face. "Did I say you could speak? Dumb fucking skank." 

He keeps his palm clamped down over your nose and mouth and pushes down to make you suffocate. Knowing exactly what you crave. 

"Now, if you stay shut up like a good little slave..." he snarls, spitting straight onto your forehead, then smearing the sticky fluid all across your face, "if you submit... and obey... and don't come till I say..."

Those words from his mouth are practically enough to make you come right now, torturing you in the most twisted way.

"Then maybe..." Dean continues as he grips your wrists, pinning your arms up, reaching for his leather belt and using it to bind your hands tight to the headboard above your bed, "... _maybe_  then I'll take this big hard cock and fuck your pretty little face. That what you want, babe?"

His palm may no longer be smothering your snout, but you know better than to speak now. You just bob your head in an eager nod, tongue hanging over your lower lip, wet and desperate, your own drool mixing with his as he leans down to spit in your mouth.

"Yeah. 'Course it is," he snickers, taking your tongue now between thumb and forefinger, just as he'd recently done with your clit. "This pretty little tongue of yours—you told me that it's talented. Showed me some... special skills. Ain't that right, whore."

Loving the way his touch completely dominates your tongue, you nod for him again, arousal building even stronger in your aching cunt.

"Mmm. And what else was it you said—that you can hold your breath?" he recalls, letting go of your tongue, reaching up a bit to pinch your nose, his other hand meanwhile encircling your throat. "Never told me how long. Did you, bitch."

You hadn't. Now you're dying to show him. He knows it.

"And we both know what your best skill is. Right in your kinky little cunt," he taunts, hands moving off your nose and neck as he begins to shift position. "Now I'm gonna make you show me all those special talents. All at once. That's what I fucking want."

Oh God—he's shifting now, sweaty crotch hovering over your face as he turns around... and begins to squat down...

His heavy balls are now inches above your mouth. "And you  _live_  to give me what I want. Don't you, slut."

You nod again as he lowers himself, drowning you in his strong musky scent.

"That's it, bitch. Open up."

You instantly gape your jaw open as wide as you can, as Dean sits down to place what like feels like his full body weight straight on your face. Sucking his sack into your mouth, as the crack of his ass fucking smothers your snout, you let out a stifled moan of bliss at the amazing smell and taste. You are  _so_  gonna get off on the way this act completely dominates, humiliates, degrades... It's everything you live for, all you've ever craved. Your sole purpose in life now is to please and serve him, your beautiful king, as his dutiful slave.

Head spinning, unable to breathe, you're grateful that you can still hear when he speaks. "Put that dirty tongue to work, bitch. All over my balls and my ass. Yeah, just like that. Show me those special talents while I punish your pathetic little cunt. Show me how you fucking worship."

Ugh, everything about this is so goddamn  _perfect_ —especially when, all of a sudden, you feel a mind-numbing stab of pain right on your clit.  _Holy shit. Holy shit_. Dean's hands are on your pussy once again. 

And he is fucking spanking it.

A few others have done this before, when you asked—but  _God, never like this_. The way Dean punishes and tortures you is so fucking delicious. It feels as if all of the blood draining from your asphyxiated brain is rushing straight down to your cunt as he keeps dishing out such perfect pain. As if you're fucking dying from each brutal spank, then coming to life just to take more, more of what you live and die for, again and again.

And he's still talking dirty this entire time, his every word divine.  _Spank._ "You like that, huh? You kinky fucking skank?"  _Spank._ "Live for the pain?"  _Spank. Spank._ "Filthy slut. Don't you dare come. Not yet."  _Spank_."That's a good little slave. Mmm. How much more can you take..." You're honestly not sure how much more, how much longer it will be before your pussy explosively disobeys.

Your tongue has been busy laving every inch of his huge, bulging balls, and though you love the taste, that gorgeous ass of his is still hovering right over your face. Wildly aroused all this time by how damn good it smells—no ass has any business smelling like that, but this is Dean Winchester, so  _of course_  his does—you feel yourself filled with the urge to shove your tongue inside that tempting place, the deepest, dirtiest part of this perfect god, to savor his amazing flavor. You don't have much control over your head, smothered like this, but one way or another, you manage to work it. Shifting and squirming your tongue in his tight, sweaty hole, not even caring if you die by suffocating in his crack like this. Because as soon as you have one hit of this mad addictive crack, one taste of Dean's delicious ass, you know—dying for this would be  _so_  fucking worth it.

Part of the reason behind your talented tongue is the fact that it's, well... super freaking long. So as you fuck it deep inside of him, you're pretty sure you hit a spot that nothing everhas before, somewhere no one has ever gone. Though you would bet that tons of girls— _and maybe even men, like his super tall friend_ —have eaten out this pretty ass before, you doubt that anything other than a worshipful tongue has ever ventured in. Dominant as he is, he doesn't seem the type to take a dildo or a dick. And of all the tongues he's ever taken, you are confident that yours has got to be the longest one.

And, in this instant, the way that Dean reacts suggests exactly that. His sweet sphincter convulses and clenches around your loving tongue,  _hard_ , pulling you ever deeper into him, causing you to see stars, to forget who the fuck you are.

" _Holy—son of—oh my Godddd..._ " he gasps in bliss as he spastically bucks his hips and keeps on feeding you his ass, blessing your cunt with one last perfect slap. "So— _so_  good, so hot...  _ughhh_ , go on, baby—let it go. Come for me.  _God_ , you've earned it. Fucking  _perfect_..."

Then with a loud, goddamn animalistic growl, Dean leans suddenly over your body, diving headfirst into your pussy to  _eat you the fuck out_. His lips and teeth and tongue are seriously going to town. And all your walls are coming down. You're squirting so hard that you're sure his gorgeous face is gonna drown. And so is yours right now, from the thick sloppy mess of your spit mixed with all his sweet precome and hot salty sweat, as he shifts his hips up a bit, luscious ass lifting off of your lips, to make room for his huge throbbing dick—he doesn't need to say a word, to give you his order to stretch open your dirty whore mouth—you do just that, and Dean's raging hard cock plunges in deep, to the hilt in half a second as he keeps on devouring your dripping wet cunt.

You're no stranger to 69; it's really a rather vanilla position. But  _this_  time, with this divine god of a man, it feels completely different, like some kind of deliciously kinky sin. You're usually on top of the man when this happens. Not because you're dominant or anything, but just because pretty much everyone—including you, until tonight—seems to think that's the 'right' way for a guy and a girl to get their 69 on.

_Well, everyone is dead fucking wrong_. Because the sensation of Dean's entire crotch completely smothering and suffocating you each time he pounds his hips violently into your face, heavy balls slapping against your forehead with each move he makes, cock thrusting in and out of your wide open jaw until it breaks, surrounding you completely in his musky scent and meaty taste, is just so fucking  _perfect_ , so damn hot in every way and so much more than you can take.

And when his thick, hot come starts shooting down your throat— _God_ , it's so good you could explode, but you already fucking are exploding, all over his flawless face, so what the hell are you even supposed to do, you know? Probably just literally die, but  _fuck_ , you desperately need to stay alive to keep on swallowing his sweet, heavenly load...

The both of you have lost all sense of time as you keep on coming and coming all over each other. It's a moment that you really, very literally wish would last forever. Though you know that nothing ever does, with Dean Winchester, that fact won't stop you from fantasizing about an eternal mutual orgasm with him every night for the rest of your life.

" _Fuck_..." he sighs once it's finally done, both completely drained of come, the full weight of his body collapsed onto yours. His still-hard dick has slid out of your mouth by this point, hips shifted enough for you to breathe in oxygen, and you instinctively take in big, deep gusts of air through your nose, panting like a used up whore. But you now know that, even after such an intense overdose, the heat of his crotch is the only thing your lungs will ever long for. 

You're feeling so high from the afterglow, which is even sweeter as you lie beneath him now and listen to these words. "Holy fucking  _fuck_. Thanks for that, babe.  _Damn_. Can I, um... can I just live on your face?"

You let out a breathless laugh, angling your head up a bit to kiss one of the firm, sculpted cheeks of his glorious ass. "Please do, sir.  _God_  yes."

"Unghhh," he moans incoherently as your mouth shifts to kiss his other cheek, desperate to worship every inch of the hot, sweaty skin to which your lips are pressed, tongue soon joining in to lick his crack in passionate strokes, long and hard and wet. "Sweetheart, your special skills are the fucking  _best_." 

"Really? Good enough for that reality TV series?" you playfully tease.

Dean laughs as he tilts his hips to give you better access to his ass. "Mmm. May as well test them out again, I guess..."

"Mm-hmm," you hum, lips vibrating sinfully against him. "And um—this time, can you do me a favor?"

He shifts his ass even closer. "Any goddamn thing, baby girl."

_Damn, you sure love the sound of that._ He asked for it; you ain't gonna hold back. "Well, you know I'm a slut for pain, so... can you spank my cunt again? And this time I want your ass to squeeze my tongue so hard it hurts. And then I kind of need you to fuck me to pieces right afterward. Shove that big cock in my slutty little pussy, then my tight ass till it fucking bleeds.  _Please_ , Dean? Sir, I mean. Pretty please?"

Dean pauses for a second, just to process all that you just said. You wish so bad that you could see what you don't doubt is the sexiest, most adorable facial expression. You're even more certain of it after what he says next. "Bitch, have I mentioned that you're fucking  _perfect_?"

He has, of course, though  _he_ is obviously the perfect one. You want nothing more than to spend all of your days just striving to deserve such praise. You know you never can, and may not even have many days, but at least you have tonight. For as long as he'll stay. 

Just for tonight, Dean Winchester in all his fucking perfection can live on your face.

 

***************

 

As the Winchesters prepare to leave New York a few days later, Dean honestly isn't sure what feels better. Looking on, the proud big brother, as Sam  _finally_  makes out with a real live actual girl—the auction house owner's daughter, that classy, curvy brunette Sarah Blake... or the feeling of sitting on your face.

Yeah, okay, who's he kidding. It's the facesitting.  _Definitely the facesitting._

But both of those things were big wins.  _Really big fucking wins._  Seeing Sammy seem to truly, genuinely be attracted to a woman, to someone who is not a blood relation, someone other than his big brother, is just... _God, it's the best._

Dean hopes with all his heart that Sam is taking Sarah to pound town right now. Good and hard.  _That's my boy_ , he thinks to himself with a smile... but right now it is time to push all thoughts of Sam from his mind as he gets in his car. Reclining in Baby to take some very well-deserved downtime.  _Deantime... with nothing but you on his mind..._

_Ugh_. That goddamned voice gets in his head again, tries to tell him that your tongue is not the only one that's gonna get that kind of magic done.  _That his "exquisite, delicious, posterior entrance" still has yet to feel a real, true "kiss from heaven"_... or at least that's how Dean's confused brain translates the incomprehensible bullshit he's hearing. 

_Stupid celestial crap._ He really doesn't wanna hear any of that. He's thinking about  _you_  now. No one else. He tells Cas, for what has to be the thousandth time, to get out of his ass. And focuses on happy thoughts.  _Filthy dirty kinky happy thoughts..._

And right now, that's all you. For the rest of his damn life, the thought of Brandi with an 'i' will alwaysget Dean super hot.  _The dirty girl with special skills and kinky secret talents, with the magic tongue and torture-craving cunt..._ His favorite, fucking  _perfect_  little painslut.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this one!!! Writing it was a ton of fun :D
> 
> As always, thank you all sooo much for kudos and comments <3


	20. (S01E20) Draw the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 20 ("Dead Man's Blood")*
> 
> *In which you are Kate the vampire*
> 
> Dean Winchester is a dirty fucking bastard down for almost any kink. But even he has to draw the line at something.
> 
> You are a dirty fucking bitch desperate to fuck him. You are also a bloodsucking monster, which apparently crosses that damn line of his. But you're not gonna let it.
> 
> Maybe there is a line to be drawn... but it's not where he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this scene is sort of dark and deadly... though for what it's worth, I honestly don't think it's as disturbing as that kind of thing otherwise might be, if the reader character were human. She's a vampire in this scene, so in some sense, she's dead already (including in the sexual sense, according to Dean, apparently, based on his quote shown in the first gif below). Some of the stuff here is a bit heavier and more twisted than other chapters, so I'm sorry for anyone who isn't into that, but I will say that the description of the deadly stuff is quick and not at all graphic — because it's less about the act itself, more about its significance. Anyway! I really enjoyed writing it and hope at least some of you will enjoy reading it :D

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 20 ("Dead Man's Blood")***

***In which you are Kate the vampire***

 

 

_Being dead ain't so bad._ Or being sort of dead, at least—or undead, or whatever one might call your dark existence as a cold-hearted, bloodsucking beast. Death gets a hell of a rap, but now that you've been stuck on the other side of life for quite some time, you can proudly say that... well, these many years that you've spent as a vampire are the best you've ever had.

Your mate is a big part of that. Luther, your lecherous lover, with his lustrous black hair, soulless smoldering stare. As you had learned not too long after being turned, bloodsuckers are faithful motherfuckers; most vampires take pride in mating for life. You and your big bad boo are no exception to that rule. You'll love him till you die. Though you're already dead, you know that all it'd take is one machete to your neck, a weapon wielded by a well-trained hunter, for a bloody death to happen yet again. Till that day comes, for you or for Luther, you'll go on forever just loving and fucking each other. 

Sometimes the two of you will get it on with other vamps and people, too—but only in a threesome or a group.  _Always together._ Like with Jenny, the pretty brown-eyed girl that you brought home last night to feed your blood, with Luther watching and then joining in as you kissed and touched her. Now she's staying with you in the nest as a freshly turned vampire.

Sure, in theory some hunter could walk up one fine day and gank you. But that's not how shit  _really_  works. You and Luther, and all of the rest of your nest, have supernatural strength and skills at your disposal to defend yourselves; being dead ain't without its perks. Human fools have come along once in a blue moon, attempting to hunt you. Your crew has slain every last one of those jerks. Pathetic idiots and amateurs.

So yeah, this deathly life you've got... it kind of fucking rocks. No hunter is gonna get the chance to chop your undead head off.  _Ever_. Of that, you're goddamn sure. 

Until you meet Dean Fucking Winchester.

 

***************

 

So... vampires. Fanged, undead, bloodsucking bitches and bastards. Turns out they're a real thing. 

_Go figure_ , Dean thinks as he opens the hood of his car, on the side of this random road, all alone out in the dark. It's not as if it's his first time learning about another kind of real-life monster. On some level, he's gotten comfortable with the fact that vamps are real. God knows there's a ton of way freakier crap with which he and Sam have had to deal. 

But ever since Dad unexpectedly showed, told them what's really going down out here in Colorado... Dean hasn't been able to shake this freaked out vibe he feels. Doesn't know why, but this bloodsucker business just gives him the chills.

It's not as if that matters, though. Not as if it'll stop him from doing his damn job. The job is to secure the Colt, the legendary gun that the vampires have in their possession. And right now, Dean's role is to stand here and wait. To play bait. To trap the queen bee of the nest so that the Winchesters can use her to lure in the leader—her ever-faithful lover, who Dad seems pretty sure will come after her—and offer a trade.

There's some danger in being the bait, but Dean honestly doesn't mind. He likes a little—or more like a lot—of danger in his life. Adrenaline and thrills: that's the upside to this gig that often kills, and never pays. So he's just fine with playing bait. Luring in women, whether or not they're even human, is a game that he is always down to play.

Soon enough, Dean senses that he's not alone. He can feel it, the presence of something undead on this road, before he even sees you approach.

"Car trouble?" you ask. You can't see much of this midnight snack from the back, but you can see broad shoulders underneath that leather jacket, blue jeans hugging a firm ass you really want to bite in half.

And then he turns to face you and— _well, shit_. This guy is all kinds of gorgeous. Sure, you're in love with Luther, and will be forever, but...  _who the fucking fuck is this?_

Whoever he is, you can't wait to have a taste. So you cut right to the chase. "Let me give you a lift. I'll take you back to my place."

You soak in all his unspeakable perfection, now that the two of you are standing face-to-face. Watch as his suckable pink lips lift up into a cheeky grin, upon the words that he now says. "Nah, I'll pass."

_Oh, fuck that_ , you think to yourself.  _This sexy bastard has no clue what you're about to do..._

He goes on to prove you wrong. "I usually draw the line at necrophilia."

_What the... ugh_. So he's a fucking hunter. Knows your secret. You try not to be distracted by how much hotter he seems now because of it. How good it feels to be insulted by a flawless god like this.  _Such a painfully beautiful son of a bitch..._

Yeah, you're dead-ish. So you're not his type. You get it. But he is exactly  _your_  type, and you desperately need him to fuck your dead brains out tonight. 

Yet you know you can't let on how bad you want him. Have to keep him on his toes, thinking that he's your victim. So you mask all your slutty thoughts behind a backhand smack to his obnoxiously goodlooking face. Good and hard—enough to knock him down onto the ground, to show just what a badass bitch you are, but not enough to mar that beauty with a scar.

You sense your vampire friend Frank emerging from the dark, your companion on this nocturnal excursion. You don't acknowledge him or anything. Too busy being aroused by the husky growl that had come out of this stranger's mouth after he fell, and the delicious patch of abdomen that you had glimpsed above his belt. You then reach down to grab his face, lifting him up into the air with your fingers framing his chiseled jaw, forcing his sweet lips to squeeze into a pucker. You're glad that you'd recently gotten a French manicure; you like the way the white tips of your nails stand out against the shadows of the night, as they dig into the skin of this fine motherfucker.

One of his hands moves up toward yours, gripping your wrist. You both know that  _he_  is typically the one to take control; he isn't used to this. You're a goddamn vampire, though, so he really should have expected it.

What's unexpected are the words he utters next. "I don't usually get this friendly until the second date, but..."

_Oh—so he's not above playfully flirting with bloodsucking monsters? That's... promising_ , you think. First comes the flirting, second comes the hardcore sex. The thick, hot come out of his cock must taste better than any blood you've ever drunk, you bet. Just the thought of it is getting your undead cunt dripping wet.

As for what he just said—you're pretty sure it's bullshit. From just one look at his ravishing face, you can tell that he rarely ever goes on dates in the first place. Probably just up and fucks any woman he wants. If he ever did date, he's definitely not the type to hold off on the fun till the second.  _And his kind of fun..._ well, you're guessing 'friendly' isn't quite the right word for it. More like frisky and freaky and filthy as hell.

He really is just your type. You can tell.

"You know, we could have some fun," you tease him, playing along with his whole so-called 'friendly' theme. "I always like to make new friends."

And then... and then you pull him in for a deep, sloppy kiss.  _Because fuck it, why try to resist_.

Hunter through and through, it's clear that he hates everything about you. So he's not about to let himself enjoy this. No way he's enjoying the way your bloodthirsty tongue twists around his, the way your teeth scrape up against his lips, the threat of fangs set to descend any second, deadly and dangerous.  _Yet on some level... you can just tell... he is._

Of course he's gonna fight it and hide it—would never admit that some part of him likes this. Just won't. But you  _know_. And as the darkness deep inside of him lets go, his enjoyment heightens your own.  _God, he tastes even better than you'd hoped. You just want to devour his mouth, his whole throat, every inch of his body and soul..._

Frank is watching with a sinister smile, getting off on this all the while—you're sure of it, though you can't see him. Voyeurism is high on the list of most vampires' favorite kinks.

But that doesn't matter to you; all that matters is this pretty plaything. This victim you've got by the throat. 

Once you finally end the kiss, he groans and cracks another joke. "Ugh. Sorry, I don't usually stay with a chick that long. Definitely not eternity."

That much you know is true. But no matter what his human habits may be, you have him in your grasp, and now he's doomed. Doomed to spend a dark, dirty, deadly eternity...  _with you_. 

_And Luther, too. Of course. You can't forget about your lover._ Not that you would forget, ever. Your mate has always been bi-curious, so you're sure he would be down to join you in fucking somebody so gorgeous. The three of you can have hot bloody supernatural sex every night for the rest of your lives together...

As that sinful thought runs through your mind, you hear the sound of something whizzing through the air, speeding right toward Frank from behind. It happens fast. Before you can even register the fact that your fellow vamp has been shot with an arrow in the back, another one promptly comes your way, shooting straight between your shoulder blades, piercing your bloodstream on impact. You let go of your green-eyed boy toy on the instant, swiveling to face the source of the attack.

You then look down to see that the arrow has penetrated through your chest, the sharp tip poking out from in between your breasts.

"Damn it," you grumble, turning to face the hunter who is now striding toward you, crossbow in hand. A ruggedly handsome, dark-haired, middle-aged man. Something tells you, somehow, that he's the sexy bastard's dad. The tall, lanky companion with him is probably his younger son. This arrow that one of them has just shot into your back hurts,  _bad_ , but you won't tell them that. You'll keep your beastly dignity or die trying. "Barely even stings."

"Give it time, sweetheart," the older hunter responds in a deep drawl, clearly not scared of you at all. "That arrow's soaked in dead man's blood. It's like poison to you, in't it?"

_Ugh. Shit. Yeah, it... it is..._

You have no clue what these hunters are about to do.  _Probably kill you, and Frank too._ But you're not about to die without having been fucked by that glorious green-eyed god of a man. You'll be damned, even more than you already are, if you don't make that happen.  _You need that motherfucking midnight snack._ That's all you can think, as you swiftly begin to lose consciousness, fainting and falling and... fading to black.

 

***************

 

He is dead.

_Dead. Just like that._  Your soulless mate, your faithful lover. Your one and only Luther. You were fated for each other, sure to spend the rest of forever together. But now he is just _... dead._

Sitting in silence in this old abandoned shed, that's the one thought that keeps running through your head. You're here with Jenny—you and she are the only two vamps from the nest who somehow managed to survive this whole damn mess. The Winchesters had used you as a trap to lure in Luther; all too well, their plan had worked. Your lover had traded the Colt to secure your return. And in the struggle that ensued, the middle-aged hunter had shot a bullet from that goddamned gun straight into Luther's head. Right in front of you. You had watched, in utter horror, as your undead lover died before your eyes. 

You had just stared and screamed. You remember that Jenny had grabbed you, hauled you over to your car to flee the scene, to speed off toward safety. That's what this random rundown shed you've stumbled into is supposed to be. Safety. Far away from the hunters who slew your whole bloodsucking family...

The fact that Luther is dead  _should_ be the only thought in your heartbroken head. And for the most part, it is. But if you're honest... it isn't. Because your thoughts keep wandering toward those fucking hunters.  _One of them in particular_...

You hate yourself for that. For still feeling desire and lust for someone other than your deceased beloved, so soon after his loss—you're an evil monster with no morals, but still, you feel like crap. Like, really fucking  _bad_. It makes you even more miserably sad. The blur of emotions blazing through your coldblooded body is driving you mad.

And that madness is what drives you to realize the truth: that there is only one thing left for you to do.  _Or actually... two._

First, you have to die. Bring an end to your undead life. You have no reason to exist any longer. Second—and much more important—you still really have to get fucked by that drop-dead hot hunter.

Preferably in the reverse order. He told you that he draws the line at necrophilia, after all, so he's not gonna fuck you once your head's been chopped off. Apparently he likes to think he wouldn't even fuck you while your head is still on... but you know that he's wrong. 

You also know his name:  _Dean Winchester_. Hottest goddamn name you've ever heard. His father had announced the family name as Winchester, to Luther and the others, before going all Daddy the Vampire Slayer. And you had been lucky enough to learn his firstborn son's first name by eavesdropping on one of his phone calls when you'd been stowed in the trunk of Daddy's truck, pumped full of dead man's blood.

In any event—names aside, you know now how the rest of your cold undead life, what little there is left, is about to go down. You feel a little bad for Jenny, but only a little; she'll just have to make do in your absence. So you tell her what's going to happen.

She doesn't quite take it as well as you'd hoped. Turns out that ever since you fed her your blood and turned her into one of your own, she has fallen in love with you, like a victim of vampire Stockholm syndrome. Of course, she thinks that Luther's death is the sole reason you no longer wish to live. So her stupid, blood-drunk brain proposes an alternative.

"Kate," she says, childish excitement all over her face. "I know you feel alone now—but you're not. You have  _me_. What if... what if I could be your mate."

You can't hold back a ridiculing laugh. "That ain't how it works, babe."

Jenny fumes, scowling defiantly at you. "Well, I'm not going to let you just—just fucking  _sacrifice_ yourself—"

"It's not a sacrifice," you tell her bluntly. "Sacrifice is for the sake of something or somebody else. But this? Honey, I'm doing it all for myself." 

It's sad, honestly, how she thinks she can convince you not to do this. She keeps up her desperate protests, pummeling your recently arrow-pierced chest with her fists. Crying and shrieking like a lunatic. " _No!_  I won't let you!"

You keep cold as ice, calm and collected. "It's not up to you what I do. Jenny, you can't... you can't be with me the way you want to." It's true; you already had your mate, and that's a love that cannot ever be replaced. Overshadowed by lust for another... apparently  _that_  is possible, yes. But not eclipsed by a new faithful bond with someone else.

"Says who? Why can't we break the rules?" she implores you. "You turned me, Kate.  _You_ turned me into what I am. You can't abandon me like this—just leave me to be all alone, forever damned..."

_Sigh. It really is quite sad._  You realize now that there is one more thing you have to do, before the other two. "You're right," you concur, scanning the toolshed for a coil of rope, which your eyes quickly find. Jenny is right that you can't just abandon her."I can't."

You cross the shed to fetch the rope—along with something else that you had seen, which you now grab without the young vamp even noticing—then guide her up against a wooden beam and start binding her hands. She complies with your every move, submissive and obedient.  _The way the slut inside you longs to be for Dean..._

"Mmm. I'm into this," she murmurs, remembering when you had first fed her your blood while she was all tied up, brown eyes half-lidded in wistful bliss. "Just like the first time we kissed..."

"Yes," you hiss, leaning in to grant poor Jenny one final mercy, claiming her lips, making her gasp. "Baby, I'm sorry that it has to be the last."

Then you raise the other item from the toolshed that you've got behind your back: a deadly ax. Bring it up and forward, with one swing slicing clean through her neck, ending her undead existence in an instant, hard and fast.

And so... that's that. She is dead. You feel a little bit of guilt. But just a little bit. Because being dead ain't so bad. Of all the ways to go, being slain by the object of your love and desire seems pretty damn fine.

And you can't wait to meet that fate yourself tonight. After you've had your midnight snack.  _Necrophilia my ass..._

Tonight, you're gonna show that godly gorgeous Winchester where he should  _really_ draw the line.

 

***************

 

After hours spent trying to track down his scent, it becomes evident that your target is wearing some strange, stinky cover-up thing. Smells like saffron and skunk and some other strong odor that's making you sick.  _Probably something his father slapped on him_ , you figure; Daddy Winchester seems like a proud pro at this kind of thing, obsessed to death with all the ins and outs of hunting. And this smelly concoction works, to keep you from being able to track down John and his taller son. 

_But as for Dean..._ his underlying scent is so robust—so rich with leather and motor oil, whiskey and musk... that you can still pick up on it no matter what.

Spying on the three men through the window of their motel room, you stand waiting in the shadows for as long as it will take. They're having what appears to be a serious conversation, and you're pretty sure that, sooner or later, Dean is gonna want to step out for a break. He's not much into talking; when it comes to dealing with issues, he'd much rather simply grab a drink and sit alone and brood. 

You know him well, as it turns out.  _Of course you do._  Just a few minutes later, while his brother keeps on talking up their old man, Dean strides out of the room with an already half-empty bottle of beer in hand, then stands against the trunk of his Impala as he stares into the empty dark. 

_Or maybe not so empty after all_ —it doesn't take him long to sense your presence and to notice where your car is parked. You're leaning against the side of it, watching him with a ravenous grin. As your gazes meet, Dean instinctively narrows his green eyes and clenches his jaw. Every bone in his body clearly wants to hack your head off. He may not know it yet, but you are soaking wet at the thought.

"Hey there, handsome," you purr, moving off of your car and taking a deliberate step closer. "So I guess this is our second date? You did say you would get...  _friendly_  on this one."

The smoldering hunk doesn't respond, doesn't even let go of his beer as his free hand starts reaching to open the trunk.  _What—he's so confident that he reckons he can take on a vampire one-handed, while holding a beer that's half-drunk? Yeah, he probably does. God. That may be idiotically cocky, but it's also really damn hot..._

"That's right—get your toys, pretty boy," you say as you saunter a few more steps toward him. Eyeing the back of his car as we swings it open, you notice that Dean's got mad junk in his trunk.  _In more ways than one._ You can't see his ass from this angle, but you remember how good it had looked when you'd first spotted him on the side of the road before. "Why don't you grab one of those arrows soaked in dead man's blood? I've mostly recovered from your daddy's doses, so you're gonna wanna pump me full of more, I'm sure."

Dean is still calmly holding his beer, and even takes another swig before he reaches in his trunk. "You can cut all the foreplay, you know," he suggests as he casually pulls out an arrow. "'Cause I already know what you came for."

You arch your brows, face-to-face with him now, nice and close. "Is that so?"

"Mm-hmm," he hums darkly, ravaging your face with the force of his gaze, as if he is the beast and you the prey.  _Which you both know is true today._  "You came... to get fucking  _slaughtered_. Lost your undead lover, now you're left all brokenhearted. Why should you wanna live any longer? Your death wish is written all over you, bitch."

_Holy unholy shit._ You figured this stud had to be damn good at reading women, after all the countless skanks he's used and screwed with. But you hadn't been prepared for...  _this_.

And he's not even done. "But that's not all you want. Is it, you bloodsucking cunt."

The mind-blowing hotness of those words having rendered you speechless, Dean pauses to contemplate the poisoned arrow for a second. Then he places it back in the trunk, and instead pulls out a whole vial of dark blood that you can already tell came from a dead man's veins. He uncaps it with his teeth to pour some of its contents right into the bottle of beer he's still holding. Steadily holding your gaze as he pours and pours and then finally closes the vial and stows it away.

"Can't even answer the question?" he taunts in response to your silence, pressing the wet rim of the beer bottle against your parted lips. "Might as well shut that dirty mouth up. Here's the poison you wanted, slut. Take it."

At this point, overwhelmed by his undaunted dominance, you are powerless to do anything other than drink. Dean tilts the bottle and takes a tight grip on your neck, making you choke as you gulp every drop of the blood-tainted beer down your throat.

"Tastes good, huh?" he teases, watching you splutter down the poison that you'd craved. "Weakness pouring straight into your veins? You feeling faint? Getting off on the pain? Know you like it this way. 'Cause you didn't come here just for me to slay. You came to  _come_. To get used up and fucked senseless like a filthy little sex slave."

_God, this guy is fucking perfect_ , you think, eyes bulging wider to take in more of his gorgeousness as you guzzle your thick, toxic drink.

"Where's your friend," he demands once the whole bottle has been emptied down your gullet. "You're not the only bitch who got away from us. I'm not gonna kill you till I've killed all the rest. Till there's nothing left of your whole goddamned nest."

Gasping from all the deadly blood that you just swallowed, and even more so from the dizzying effect of Dean's scent and his total control, you begin to feel your knees buckle. He casts the empty bottle down and grabs a firm hold of your body to keep you from sinking to the ground, one hand around your shoulder and the other tangling in your hair. 

"Th-there," you stammer, gesturing weakly back toward your own car. "Jenny was... she was the only one left. Now she's in the trunk. Dead."

"Mmm. Let me guess. You did it yourself? So she couldn't prevent you from coming to do this?" Dean figures as his perceptive gaze scans your pale face. "That how desperate you were, to go after the death you wanted? Fucking chopped off your undead friend's head?"

Though he's got your skull mostly in his control, you somehow manage a meek little nod. "Y-yes..."

"Yes what," he snaps, moving his hand off of your shoulder to deal your face a ruthless slap.

"Yes sir!" you instantly gasp.

"Fucking slut," he rasps, swiftly grabbing something else form his truck before slamming it shut and smashing your body against the lid, smirking as you yelp from the impact of your back crashing onto the solid surface. "You know, a filthy submissive bitch like you might've been just my type... back when you were alive. But I told you where I draw the line. Didn't I."

_Shit—his words and actions hurt so good you wanna fucking cry..._

"You're just a soulless sack of shit. Bloodsucking bag of bones. I'd sooner die than fuck your undead holes and you know it," he sneers as he watches you whimper in humiliated pleasure, aching for more and more of his torture, reeling from the high. "Guess you're so hungry for this cock that you just had to try."

_Fuuuck_. That cock of his, massive and stiffening beneath his jeans, is grinding forcefully into your crotch as Dean's hips thrust forward between your parted thighs. You're barely even conscious enough to notice as he raises the other thing that he had taken from the trunk. But you can see the metallic glimmer of it in the dark of night. It's a machete, you realize.

" _This_  is where I draw the fucking line," he tells you as he presses the sharp blade against your breathless throat, hard, but just short of splitting skin and drawing blood. "Bet you're already aching to die. Here and now, whenever the hell I decide. But you're gonna get lucky tonight. You know why?"

_...Huh?_ You don't know what he's talking about; you already are lucky as fuck, to be dying like this, slaughtered bloody and rough by a living sex god.By now you've given up all hope of getting fucked by Dean, given how dead set against necrophilia he clearly seems. You'll have to deal with satisfying only one of your two dreams.

But then he smirks wickedly down at you, one hand remaining on the weapon at your throat while the other reaches down to— _wait—is he... unzipping his jeans...?_  He fucking  _is_ , you realize, barely able to process his words as he speaks. "'Cause just for a minute... just before this blade slices right through your undead neck... you're gonna feel human again. You're gonna be that dirty bitch who was still living and breathing, long before your vampire lover ever ended your life, turned you into a monster. The good little girl you'd always been. 'Cause that poor slut who must've died too young, submissive  _human_  slut, so sweet and innocent—she deserves one last good fuck. Deserves to take this cock. Deep in this desperate fucking cunt. Even if the bloodsucking beast you are doesn't."

_Holy mother of fuck_ —you could never thank Dean enough, for what he is doing. His words are so... dirty and dark and twisted, yet so fucking pure, fucking sacred, in the beautiful mercy that they've granted. As he rips through what clothes remain between your crotch and his, and as he plunges his enormous, perfect cock straight in your soaking slit, you really truly do feel human again. For just a minute, though the minute is so deep that it feels infinite. And it's the sweetest fucking thing. For as long as you can remember, you've thought that you loved your damned life as a cold, undead, bloodsucking bitch. But honestly, you never did. You had learned to deal, had put up so many defenses, but all along... you just missed this.  _Needed_  this. Because, as you realize now, being human is the only way to ever truly live. And it's what Dean gives.

You  _feel_  truly human, in these moments just before he grants the final gift... but you're not. You can never be again. Not till your true soul descends to hell, or somehow makes it up to heaven, or lands wherever it may belong in between. You're not human, not really. And that's why your undead life has to end. At Dean's hands. He knows it—he understands. And sure, some dark, twisted, sadistic part of him is enjoying this, getting off on everything that's happening. 

But more than anything, it's just another burden that he's shouldering. Doing a favor to this godforsaken world, by ridding it of yet another evil creature. And a big fatal favor, one final kindness, to a poor girl who must've died for the first time years or decades or centuries ago, turned into a monster, dealt a cruel fate that she surely never deserved.

Dean comes—hard, right after you—and then he kills. He knows it heals. But still, he doesn't like the way it feels, the way it hurts. To carry so much on his shoulders. Most of all he doesn't like the way he... likes it. Not the burden, but the blood. The blood he so brutally spills.  _More than he should._  Being so dominant, sadistic, rough and ruthless when it comes to sex, has always been a way to deal, with all the shit he never could. A way to let himself be bad and let it feel good. In a way that he can't ever let it, when it comes to anything else. The best thing about sex— _well, at least consensual adult sex, which is of course the only kind he ever has—and non-incestuous, because as far as he's concerned, that shit with Sammy never happened_ —the best thing about that kind of sex is that, no matter how sinfully  _bad_  it gets, it can always feel fucking guiltless. And it does. But sometimes... sometimes shit's too real. 

_This is one of those times_ , he thinks.  _He should've drawn the line..._

The angel on his shoulder tries to take some of the burden from it, tells him everything will be all right. Dean wishes he could believe it. Wishes he could let himself surrender some of what he takes upon himself to carry, even just a little bit. Maybe he will.  _Maybe_ , he thinks as he gently closes your lifeless eyes, wondering what he'll tell Sammy about what happened, now that he can hear his brother stepping outside. Wonders if he'll have the courage not to lie. Courage is something the angel could give, if he let him.

_Maybe he will_... maybe he can let the angel in for a minute, to spite the monster in himself, the dark inside, with holy light. Just for tonight.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only 2 more episodes to go in Season 1!!
> 
> For those who didn't like this scene, most chapters definitely won't involve the reader getting killed by Dean, so no worries :P
> 
> But anyway, I hope you guys are still enjoying this! As always, if so, please do let me know in kudos and comments :) <3


	21. (S01E21) Oh God, Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 21 ("Salvation")*
> 
> *In which you are the hospital receptionist who sees Dean and is eager to be of service*
> 
> Dean Winchester is a kinky fucking bastard.
> 
> When he struts into this hospital where you work, pretending to be a police officer, you discover that there are a few kinks you two can explore and indulge in together. If he plays bad cop... you can play good nurse. And heal him everywhere it hurts.

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 21 ("Salvation")***

***In which you are the hospital receptionist who sees Dean and is eager to be of service***

 

__

 

 _Ugh_. You really cannot wait to get off.

Of work, that is. You've spent the past several hours smiling at doctors and patients, processing papers from behind the counter, and now you're just counting the minutes till the end of your shift. It's not the world's worst job, being a hospital receptionist. But a lot of it involves brainlessly staring at the clock. Because it is boring as fuck.

 _Speaking of fuck_ —now  _that_ is what you desperately want to do to the smoking hot studmuffin who just walked in, looking like a living breathing sex god. He struts into the room with the aura of someone who knows the whole world wants to worship his cock. You catch sight of his profile first, and it's so fucking perfect it hurts, from the slope of his nose to the ridge of his jawbone, every contour chiseled and strong. And then he turns, green eyes on you all of a sudden, and  _God_ , he looks so good it has to be wrong. His flawless face and broad-shouldered, bowlegged frame give new meaning to the whole damn concept of hot. 

Guys like that don't come in here a lot.  _Naturally_ , you think,  _since no other men like him even exist. Who the fucking fuck is this...?_

Well, whoever he is, you've never been happier to be working as a receptionist. As far as you're concerned, this is the best job  _ever,_  if it's what gives you the chance to lay eyes on this gorgeous Adonis.  _If only you could lay more than your eyes on him_ , you wish—it's taking all of your restraint now not to throw yourself over the counter, to rip those clothes off of his body and fucking pounce on it.... you don't doubt for a second that his dick is everything you've ever wanted.

Those beautifully shaped brows of his arch up a bit, as he notices the hungry way you're staring at him. That must've been what he noticed. Surely it's your shameless gawking that caught his attention and sparked his interest. Or it might be this top that you're wearing, which you know is too low-cut to be work-appropriate, totally showing off your tits.  _Maybe both_ , you figure, and then— _oh_ —he's coming over toward you— _holy shit..._

 _Calm the hell down, stupid_ , you silently tell yourself.  _Don't get all giddy and flattered; you must look like such an idiot. Of course he would approach you when he walks in, but don't act as if that matters. It's not because he wants to fuck you or anything. It's because you're the goddamn receptionist._

Heart hammering, voice stammering and breathless, you compel yourself to say something, summoning words to your slutty mouth. "Hi!" you blurt out, panicking instantly as to whether you'd sounded too perky. Your nipples sure as hell are—so perky and aroused that the stiff peaks are probably poking through your bra right now—but you don't want your voice to come out like a shrill, high-pitched squeak.  _Just try to play cool._  "Is there... anything I can do for you?"

The Adonis is here, standing right across the counter now. Mesmerized by the sight of his pearly whites for a second, you wonder if he's got a voice to match his looks—because if so, then you just might come at the sound.  _Is he really that much of a sex god? Is that how it's gonna go down?_  You can't wait to find out. Hold your breath as he opens his mouth.  _It's the moment of truth..._

You had asked if there was anything that you could do for him. Despite the smutty thoughts running through your mind, making your head spin, it was honestly meant as an innocent question. So you're not at all prepared for the unholy shit he says. "Oh God, yes."

 _Hoooly fuck—yup—there it is._  At the sound of that pure magic husky voice of his, those dirty words falling off of his luscious lips... your pussy throbs explosively within the tight crotch of your jeans, and sure enough, the friction of your clit twitching against the fabric sets you off. Gets you off, before your shift is finished yet. Dripping wet, fucking soaking through your panties, leaking at the seams.  _Great,_  you think.  _Just great. That's real classy._  You could never have imagined coming undone solely from a stranger's words, but the god standing before you is seriously beyond all your wildest dreams. You try to hide what's happening behind a breathy little laugh, eyes averted from his beauty in a downward glance, squirming anxiously because something tells you that he can see straight through your pants.

Maybe... maybe you shouldn't have to hide, though, in light of the way he'd replied. There's no way that those words could be taken as anything other than a shameless, forward flirtation— _right? Right...?_ The thought of that makes it even harder for you to keep your shit together, but you'll have to try.

He breathes in deep, as if he can pick up on the scent of your arousal through your pants, from across the counter where he stands—you realize then that a sexy beast such as him probably can. And if that's true, then... well, you hope he likes it. You're already obsessed with the subtle hints that you can catch of his scent, from this distance: leather and liquor and musk and raw masculine lust.  _God, what gives anyone the right to look and smell so irresistibly delicious?_

While that thought runs through your head, he reaches to pull something from his pocket. You really wish it were his dick. You're still in public, sadly, so it isn't. 

"Only I, uh..." he says as he holds up his ID.

You glance at the badge briefly.  _Police? Really?_ His business here must be pretty important, then. But not important enough to stop you from gunning for his cock.  _As if anything could ever be_. 

In fact, you kind of have a thing for cops. As long as they're hot. Most of the police you've seen around town are definitely not, which sucks— _but if this steamy hunk is an officer of the law..._ your tongue instinctively flicks out over your thirsty lips just at the thought.

He clears his throat. "I'm working right now, so..."

 _...So take a donut break, bring your handcuffs and fuck me up._ You manage somehow not to say that aloud. Give him a somewhat less vulgar reply. "Oh," you sigh, biting your lip and batting your eyes. "So am I. But..."

You pause, voice drifting off as you look up at the clock. The timing couldn't be more perfect.  _Just a few more seconds till you're off the job—tick... tock..._

He doesn't bother following your gaze. Keeps his own emerald eyes fixated on your blushing face. "But what, sweetheart?"

And just then, the hour has struck. You turn your head to face him again. "Well, look at that. My shift just ended," you truthfully tell him, taking another deep breath of his scent because you'll never get enough. "How about yours, officer? When do you... get off?"

His gorgeous green orbs light up with a sinful little glimmer at those words. He leans in a bit closer over the counter, stowing his badge back in its place. "Well, when you ask me  _that_ way... you oughta know the answer, babe."

Oh yes you do. Or at least you can guess. Although you get the sense that he's not actually a cop, he's still the sexiest damn thing you've ever seen, police or not, so you're on fire with desire nonetheless. Your whole body is burning up in anticipation of having hot, filthy sex with this flawless Adonis.  _Is this seriously gonna happen? Oh God, yes._

"But I bet you wanna hear me say it anyway," he teases, dragging his wet tongue slowly across his lower lip. "So I'll tell you. I'll tell you just when I get off."

At this point, you're pretty sure his words are gonna pull  _another_  orgasm straight from your soaking cunt.

 _And yup_ —sure enough, that's what happens, as soon as he utters his impossibly hot response: "I get off whenever the fuck I want."

 

***************

 

 _God, this chick is so fucking hot_ , Dean thinks as his hungry eyes devour your pretty face and perky tits, eager to rip off your tight-fitting top.  _And such a fucking slut. Already came twice just from hearing some dirty talk._ He cannot wait to show you all the other ways he's gonna get you off. 

He'd really like to grab you from across the counter, slam you down, right here in the middle of reception, not even caring about all the strangers watching as he fucks your brains out. But as good as that sounds... he has an even better idea right now. This is a hospital, after all. The perfect place to indulge in a certain kink of his, one that he hasn't had the chance to play around with very often.

So he goes for it. "You know what—you asked if there's anything you can do for me. And there is, actually. I, uh... need to make an appointment."

It's super cute the way your brows crease up right now, more than a little disappointed and confused. "Appointment?"

"Mm-hmm. And it's urgent," he answers. "Think I need to see a nurse. Need it real bad. Though the thing is... she's gotta be hot."

Your brows shift a bit—the crease releases as they lift up into arches, less confused, more amused and intrigued.

"See, I've got a thing for hot nurses. But I've also got a thing for this smokin' receptionist. The nurses here ain't got nothing on her, I'd bet," Dean goes on, leaning in toward you suggestively. "So what do you think? Should we make an... appointment?"

You blink and pause for a second as you process his question. And when you answer him, the hushed, sultry tone of your voice is just as suggestive as his had been. "Now, officer, if I didn't know better... I'd think you're telling me you've got a little roleplay kink."

" _What?_ " Dean responds—it's his turn now to crease his brows, playing along. "Nah, 'course not."

Your mouth turns down into a pout. "Aw, well that's too bad. 'Cause you know... if you did, then the receptionist might've told you her secret. How she's got a roleplay kink of her own."

 _Oh shit_ , Dean thinks. He fucking loves it when a bitch has secret kinks. Especially when her kinks match up well with his. "Is that so?"

You lick your lips and lean in closer. "Yeah. You know... maybe I'm not really a nurse. Just like you're not really an officer. But maybe we can both get off on being what we're not."

 _Ugh. So goddamn hot._  Dean can feel his cock straining against his jeans, hard as a rock. "So you've got a thing for authority, huh? Guns and cuffs? Wanna get fucked dirty and rough by an officer of the law?"

Those pretty eyes of yours are sparkling with excitement at his words. "Mmm, maybe—but you might want to let me do my job and take care of you first... you know, examine every inch of that big, strong body you've got. Let's just say I'll play good nurse..." you bring your lips close to his ear to murmur, "...if you'll play bad cop."

 _Good God_ —at this point, he is trying real hard not to blow his fucking load. It helps when the old overweight man who has been standing behind him in line, for quite some time now, finally makes his presence known. Dean's whole body jolts as the fat man suddenly clears his throat.

He sees you bite your lip to stifle back a giggle, which is all kinds of adorable. Your replacement receptionist, who was apparently running a few minutes late, arrives right this instant. She thanks you for covering till then.

"No problem," you tell her with a cheery grin. "Was just finishing up. Couldn't leave without helping this gentleman make an appointment."

The new receptionist is speechless at the moment, standing and staring, smitten with Dean on first sight just as you had been. Like most women who have ever seen him. But the new girl is out of luck—you've got his full attention.

"Gentleman?" he repeats what you'd said, as you lead him away from reception. "Well, nurse better be nice and gentle, but..."

"Oh, I know," you interrupt, flashing a flirty smile that’s hot enough to get him off. "Officer better be all kinds of rough."

 

***************

 

Luckily enough, there's an exam room down the hall that you're pretty sure has a clear schedule, and you happen to have a coworker that you can count on to make sure no one else barges in. You've helped her out a few times before with the same kind of thing, so she owes you one.  _Or more than one_ , you figure—so you ask her for an extra favor.

You murmur your request to her, with the studmuffin out of hearing distance. "And can I, um... borrow that costume?"

She blinks, trying and failing not to gawk at the man candy standing close by. "Uhhh... yeah, sure thing. I'd ask you not to get it too dirty, but who am I kidding— _please_  bring it back covered in come if it's coming from  _him_."

"Ew," you tease playfully, as if you can blame her for asking. "You're disgusting."

She rolls her eyes and jabs you in the ribs. "Screw you, whore. Some of us aren't lucky enough to get the sweet stuff from the source," she mutters. "Okay, wait here; I'll go get you that outfit. You should just be glad I'm not inviting myself to join in."

You shrug. "Well, you know how they say three's a crowd..."

"No, you're just a greedy bitch," your jealous friend grumbles. "Want him all to yourself. And I get it. But you owe me  _big time_ now."

As she heads off to fetch the costume, you turn to face the officer behind you. 

"That was cute," he says, gorgeous face lit up with a smirk.  _The smug fucking bastard._

"Let me guess—you heard every word?" you sigh, hardly surprised. "You must be used to bitches fighting over you..."

He chuckles, a cocky little laugh to let you know it's true, then nods toward the nearby exam room. "So... want me to wait in there while you put on your costume? Sorry I didn't come here prepared with a Halloween cop getup, but—"

You shake your head and scrunch up your nose. "No worries; that'd just be tacky. Gun and cuffs will do."

"Damn straight. And you know I got those," he assures you, leaning in for a kiss, which you hadn't been expecting but eagerly take.

 _...Shit_. You're thankful now that no one else is in this hallway, because at the touch and the taste of his plump, scrumptious, pillow-soft lips, you totally just came. 

He sucks the moan out of your mouth, basking in the powerful effect he has on you and smiling when he finally pulls back, letting your limp trembling limbs hang on his sturdy frame. There's something tender in the way he holds you, something different in his gaze. "Name's Dean, by the way," he quietly says. "I mean for real. Not for the roleplay."

You furrow your brows, wondering why the hell he'd tell you now.

Whatever the change in him meant, he looks down and hastens to brush it away. "Not that it matters—I just..."

"Dean," you breathe his name just like the gift it is, reaching to touch his cheek. "Of course it does."

You could never begin to count all the emotions that have fallen inexplicably across his perfect face. More even than those precious fucking freckles. Each a mark of his beauty, though you can't tell whether they're kisses from heaven or scars from hell. For a second, he's just somewhere... else.

Your soft touch on his face urges him to meet your gaze. "You okay?"

Dean blinks and forces a grin, squeezing your waist. "Yeah, of course, babe. Sorry—got distracted for a second. There's just some, uh... serious shit I might be getting into, real soon, and I guess I wanna make the most of everything till then."

"Serious shit?" you ask, concerned and curious.  _God, he's even more attractive when he opens up like this_. You somehow get the sense he doesn't do it often.

He nods his pretty head. "Yeah. Nothing you need to hear about, sweetheart. Family business. I dunno, I just—I gotta bad feeling about all of it. Like in the pit of my stomach," he tells you, swallowing hard in a way that makes it clear it's true. But then he blinks again, and seems to have suddenly shifted gear once his eyes open. "And... well, all over my body, to be honest. In my bones... under my skin... like, every fucking inch. You, uh—think that's something my hot nurse could help with?"

Though his words and his touch are arousing as fuck, still there's some part of you that can't forget how heartbreaking it was to sense his pain, to catch a glimpse of everything that he brushes away. You don't know the first thing about this guy. Other than that his physical perfection doesn't even hold a candle to the infinite beauty that seems to lie behind his eyes. You're not sure how often Dean ever lets anyone in, let alone you again, or himself even. So you are grateful for what little you’ve been given. Now more so than ever, you know that you'll love playing nurse to this divine god of a man—not just examining and exploring every inch of him, but going deeper, really feeling and healing him, being of service in every goddamn way you can.

Dean clearly doesn't want to dwell on the serious shit that lies ahead of him. Not at the moment. So you happily follow his lead as he falls right back into flirty, dirty mode again.

"Oh, of course, officer. Nurse is gonna make you feel better all over," you purr, running your palm down his torso, already obsessed with every ridge and bulge of muscle you can feel beneath his shirt.  _Ugh, he's so hot it hurts_ , you think, gesturing toward the closed door behind him as you pull away. "Now why don't you go sit your pretty ass in there and wait. Don't get started without me, okay?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, babe," he growls, playfully smacking your ass and flashing you a wink that makes it obvious he's not gonna obey.

In perfect timing, as Dean slips into the room and shuts the door, your friend returns with a tacky Halloween-themed tote bag over her shoulder. "You're lucky I remembered to wash this outfit since the last time I wore it. With that super hot doctor. God, I wish he were still here..."

You raise your brows judgmentally at her. "Ever think your slutty encounters may have had something to do with Dr. Sexy getting fired?"

"Shut up and go get changed. I'll watch the door," she offers. "Make it quick before I get tempted to take what's yours."

"Oh, you're already tempted, whore," you tease as you take the tote bag from her. "But you know that I will literally kill you if you touch him."

While you can't hear your friend as you hurry off to the bathroom, you're sure she's mumbling about how dying over that would be so worth it. You know that you can trust her, though. She had called dibs on Dr. Sexy years ago. Made you promise to keep your hands off him. And you had honored that, as tough as it had been. 

 _So now it's your turn to call dibs, on a man who happens to be a million times sexier_ , you think with a satisfied smirk as you glance at yourself in the bathroom mirror. You pause to admire the tight, flattering way the slutty costume fits, highlighting all your finest assets. It couldn't be more perfect.  _Now it's your turn to play the hot nurse. You've fucking earned it._

 

***************

 

As soon as you step into the exam room—after whispering a thank-you to your friend as she closes the door—you're totally committed to your role as nurse. You had specifically told Dean not to get started without you; it comes as no surprise that he hasn't quite followed your orders.

And  _fuck_ , he looks so good that you can't even blame the bastard. Having thrown off some of his layers, he's sprawled out on the cushioned exam table in just jeans, boots and a T-shirt. Thankfully, he knew better than to strip completely naked—it's no secret that it's  _your_  job to take care of that. But the naughty son of a bitch has already unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans, and his right hand has wandered down into his pants. You can see it moving slightly as he palms himself beneath his boxer briefs, and just the sight of him like that fills your entire body with a blaze of raging heat.

Though you had entered quietly, you don't doubt that Dean heard and felt your presence from the instant the door opened. But in more ways than one, this session is bound to be all about playing pretend. It's more fun if he acts like he doesn't know that you've arrived just yet. Not till you say something.

So you let yourself indulge in a few more seconds of just speechlessly staring at how motherfucking beautiful he is—the way his rosy tongue and pearly teeth keep teasing at his luscious lower lip, the long fringe of his light golden-brown lashes as his eyes flutter in bliss beneath closed lids, the tension that keeps tightening the tendons of his wrist with every movement of his self-pleasuring fist... you could seriously keep on watching him forever, just like this.

But there is so much more in store. You're here to play nurse, and to serve him as his dirty fucking whore.

"Well, good afternoon, sir," you greet him, in the kind of voice a girl should only use in porn. You're pretty sure the scene set to go down between you and Dean will be super hardcore. "I'll be your nurse today. Here to take care of you in every way..."

As you cross the room toward him, his eyes finally open, bright green and bulging enormously, clearly pleased at what he sees.

You can't help but smile at the way he reacts, getting off on the effect you have.  _God, it gets you all giddy._ You softly clear your throat, trying to stay composed, to keep playing your role. "But, officer, it looks like you might be... taking care of yourself already? Without me?" your mouth curves down into a pout as you ask.

Standing right by him now, you bend down, just a bit, giving him a clear view of your tits, practically bursting out of your outfit. You watch as his jaw drops and as the rhythmic motion of his hand comes to a stop. 

"Good  _God_..." he breathlessly pants, ignoring your question and asking his own now, drool gathering visibly in his mouth as he shamelessly gawks, "baby, is... is it even legal for a nurse to be so hot?"

With a casual shrug of your shoulders, you lean even closer. "You should know, cop—you're the one who's an officer of the law..."

His head lifts up on instinct toward your cleavage, groaning as your hands move to his chest to press him back against the surface underneath him, a firm yet gentle act of restraint. 

Dean could've easily pushed past your hands if he had wanted to, of course. Could've smashed his face into your tits in an instant, and it's hard as fuck to resist, when you've never craved anything more. Yet you both know better—that wouldn't really be in character. For now, your role as nurse comes first.

" _Mmph_ ," he grunts, the raw desire in his low, gravelly voice setting a fucking fire in your cunt. "Guess I should shut up and let you do your job, huh?"

You bite your lip provocatively, studying his flawless face with your ravenous gaze. "Let me do my job, yes... but shut up? 'Course not, officer. You can talk all you want," you reassure him, leaning in closer to whisper words into his ear as you inhale his strong, rich scent. "Nurse wants to know what's wrong. Tell me what you need, sir. Where it hurts."

"Fuck..." he moans as your lips trace the tender spot behind his ear and then start to descend, drifting ever lower, barely grazing his skin, ghosting over his throat. "Fucking— _ughh_ , just... all over..."

"Yeah? Like right here?" you ask, palms sliding up his pecs and down the sides of his neck, pulling your face away a bit so that you can look down at him, watching the mind-blowing sexy expressions he's making as you set to work with your hands. "Wow, officer—these big, strong muscles of yours are all knotted up, you know that? Need a nurse's touch real bad. You must carry the weight of the world on these shoulders..."

"Heh," Dean snickers, eyes repeatedly flickering open and closed as he struggles not to blow his load. You're pretty sure that he's stopped touching himself now, as that would only make things harder. "Well yeah, you know... I only make a living saving people, hunting—um, arresting evil bastards..."

"Mmm. Such a...  _hard_ line of work," you purr, shifting smoothly to straddle him on the exam table right as you say it, so that your wet cunt—naked underneath this skirt—is grinding up against the denim covering his big, stiff dick, making him gasp and grit his teeth with an agonized hiss. You want to kiss those lips so badly, but for now you know it's better to resist. "Officer, would you mind if I get you out of this shirt? Think maybe that way I could make you feel even... better..."

"Oh God, yes," he sighs, emerald gaze wild and dazed, unable to decide whether to look you in the eye or keep on ogling your breasts. "You can have me however you want, nurse."

"Mmm. Was hoping you would say that, sir," you murmur as you tuck your fingers under the bottom hem of his shirt, pressing passionate kisses all over his neck as you inch the fabric slowly upward. 

Once you're finished peeling it off of him, pulling it over his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor, you sit up and stop to soak in the breathtaking view spread before you, a vision made to be admired and adored. Only half of him is naked yet it already looks like everything you live for. And the light in his gorgeous eyes tells you it's all fucking yours.

" _Damn_. I'm no doctor, but I, uh... think I know the diagnosis, officer," you tell him as you begin sensuously massaging the smooth, sculpted muscles beneath his bare skin, kneading and squeezing with worshipful fingers. "You've got a bad case of being fucking  _perfect_. So perfect it hurts."

Though you can tell Dean doesn't think so, apparently blinded by a misguided sense of self-loathing or something, he at least takes the compliment in the moment. But not without deflecting it, showering you with praise he seems to think you deserve. "Right back atcha, nurse," he says with the cutest of smirks. "You ever looked in a mirror? 'Cause if perfect hurts, I'm sure you're also aching all over..."

"Nuh-uh—don't you try to make this about me, officer," you chide with a flirtatious bat of your eyes, running your palms up and down his sides. " _I'm_  here to treat  _you_ , remember? Make this perfect body of yours feel all better."

And you're gonna make damn sure he remembers, as your mouth joins in alongside your fingers to massage and serve and worship every inch of his abs and his chest, each kiss and caress getting him that much harder, where his jean-clad crotch rubs up against your skirt, and you beneath it that much wetter. Dean feels even better than he looks, smells even better than he feels, tastes even better than he smells, and just...  _ugh_ , fucking hell—the more you get the more you need, and you can tell already that you'll never get enough of him,  _ever_.

"Son of a  _bitch_ , oh  _God_ , yes... just— _fuck_..." he keeps gasping and groaning incoherently above you as your loving lips and hungry tongue go to goddamn town on him, devouring his bare upper body all over, savoring the taste of every fucking freckle, every precious drop of sweat that clings like sin on his delicious skin. You're certain tons of other girls have done this kind of thing to him, probably pretty fucking often. But he seems to be getting off on this more than just the usual body-worshiping session that he must be so used to receiving. Based on your time so far with him, you figure that's for more than a few reasons. "Yes—God, nurse, so good—just... ugh, fucking...  _hurts_..."

"Hurts? Hmm, where does it hurt, sir?" you purr, teeth vibrating against skin as they bite and tease the beautifully bulging curve of Dean's shoulder. You know exactly where he means; in this position your slick crotch is rubbing hard against his jeans, your own arousal threatening any second to burst at the seams. You can only imagine how hard to hold in his has been. "Tell me where you need me. Please, officer. Tell me how I can serve..."

"L-lower..." is all he can manage to blurt as you instantly start shifting against his body, gliding slowly downward. "Oh God, yes— _please_..."

"Anything you need, Dean," you passionately breathe, uttering his name on purpose just then, in the middle of the roleplay session, as you begin pulling off his jeans, grabbing and sliding the denim down his muscular thighs while dropping wet kisses all over the sensitive skin just above his boxer briefs, through the soft cloth of which you can feel his massive erection throbbing violently against your neck. You need him to hear his real name in this moment. To know that he is  _so fucking perfect_. You weren't playing a role when you said it. You need him to get that, even if it's a fact his self-hatred won't let him accept.

Leaving the top of his jeans rumpled at his knees, you look reverently up at Dean's beautiful face, melting inside as he lets his eyes open to meet your gaze. You hold his stare as your teeth tease at the upper hem of his underwear, tugging almost hard enough to tear. When you release the bite, you hear him moan in pleasure as the elastic snaps back down onto the tender skin there, your hands framing his hips, in sync with your lips, as both your fingers and your mouth start inching closer toward his painfully hard dick.  _So. Fucking. Perfect_. You can already tell that it is, without even seeing or tasting it yet, even when it's still completely sheathed in fabric, sweat and precome seeping through the cloth that's straining to contain his huge cock, every inch of his crotch, like your own, soaking wet.

You've been prolonging everything that's happening so far, because somehow you know, that the moment his dick is unleashed and drives into your throat, the first part of the roleplay will come to a close. You'll still be playing nurse, of course. But the focus of the sex will be on Dean fucking you up, playing cop, hard and rough. As much as you crave that, you've been wanting desperately to savor every second leading up to it. Every second of this, every healing touch and every tender loving kiss. And so you have. Though you could never get enough, by now you're finally ready—aching all over,really—for what's yet to come. For him to feed you full of every sweet drop that you know has been building for so fucking long. Soon it'll be the officer's turn to dominate his nurse, take what he wants, and give you what you need, by ravaging your dirty little mouth and dripping cunt.

The thought crosses your mind that you're dying to have him turn over— _so that you can massage the strong blades of his shoulders, leave a trail of kisses down the curve of his spine, leading straight to his ass, which you're sure tastes divine, shove your slobbering tongue deep inside_... but you'll just have to hope to get the chance another time. Because right now, his meat needs to be in your mouth and will not be denied.

"God... smell so good, sir," you murmur, rubbing your nose all over the cloth that's covering his cock and balls, inhaling his sweat his and his musk, getting off on the filth of it all. Your eager fingers curl under the top of his boxer briefs as you bury your face deep between his thighs. "May I...?"

Sure enough, Dean's voice has gone a few shades darker now when he replies, raspy and rough. "May you what?" he demands. "Want that cock in your mouth, slut?"

Those words hit you right in the cunt. " _Fuck_..."

"Naughty girl," he snarls, hands reaching down to grab your skull, taking your head in his control, so hard it hurts. "You here to be my nurse? Or dirty little whore?"

You groan in bliss as Dean pulls your face deeper into his crotch, heightening your pleasure as he clamps his thighs together, then releases just enough to let you breathe and give your answer. "I—I'm whatever you want me to be, officer..."

"Oh, I'll show you what I want, you filthy cunt," he grunts, thick fingers tangling in your hair to hold your head in place as he sits up. "Ready to get that pretty face fucked? Slutty little mouth ever sucked off a cop?"

 _Oh God_... you're still too suffocated to talk, overdosing on the feel and the smell of his cock. Then you yelp in shock when he suddenly shifts, dragging you with him as he slides swiftly off of the table, spinning you around to slam your hips against the side of it and bend you over, facedown with your tits smashing into the cushioned surface, with him standing behind you as you hear him reaching down to get the handcuffs he'd been keeping in his pocket. At this point the sounds coming out of your mouth are just moans of desire and whimpers of bliss. It feels like you're already coming just from that telltale metallic clink, and the sensation of his savage grip, holding your hands in place at the small of your back as he fastens the sturdy cuffs around your wrists.

And then Dean speaks, and holy  _shit_ , you're too turned on to even breathe. "You like this?" he devilishly teases. "Mmm. Who would've thought sweet little nurse would be so naughty. On your knees, bitch."

With a submissive grunt, you hasten to shift position, wanting nothing more than to obey. All your limbs have been reduced to a pathetic shaking mess, though, so your movements are clumsy and slow—and Dean's gonna have to punish you for that, despite the fact that his hotness is what got you this way. 

"Hurry up, slut," he huffs, shoving your skirt up a bit to slap your ass, causing you to gasp at the contact of his calloused palm against your soft, bare skin. "Don't make me say it again. You need some fucking motivation?"

Your blood stops in your veins just then—as the cold, hard pressure that you feel at the back of your head can only be one thing: officer's big, bad gun. And the touch of this deadly weapon instantly has you coming undone. You hope it's loaded. Because you're a sick, twisted piece of shit.

Dean obviously knows it. Keeps the barrel of the gun against your skull, shifting it to your temple as you finally sink down in front of him, on your knees gazing up at his soul-crushing beauty. Your jaw has dropped open on instinct, drooling like mad with hunger for the meat you've been craving.

"This what you want?" he taunts, free hand groping at his crotch for a second, grabbing himself through his boxer briefs, then yanking the cloth sharply downward and letting his raging cock finally spring free. And  _God_ , you think as you gawk at it, speechless—it's even bigger and more beautiful than you had ever dreamed. Which should not have been possible, really, given how flawless you'd imagined it to be. Your face impulsively lunges toward the pillar of perfection, but Dean reaches down to grab it, slapping his meat against your cheek a few times, just to tease and torture you before he forces it right past your panting lips. "Yeah, that's it. Suck on officer's big fucking dick. Take it deep, you dirty bitch."

You don't even need him to tell you—with your face buried in his crotch like this, devouring him deep is all you can do. But you love it even more when you're taking his orders. Love every second of his dirty talk as he keeps on hammering your throat with his huge, rock hard cock.  _No dick has any business being so delicious_ , you think to yourself in a daze as he mercilessly fucks your face, gun at your head all the while as each thrust of his hips breaks your gaping jaw to pieces. No doubt he's gonna come in your mouth any second now. It's bound to happen soon, you're sure, the way he's pounding so forcefully in and out, ever harder and faster— _you cannot fucking wait to taste every sweet drop from his cock, to swallow it all down..._

"Get the fuck up, slut," he commands all of a sudden, slapping his dick against your drooling tongue before abruptly pulling out of your mouth. He grips you by the hair to hoist you up onto your feet, then slams you down with your back pressed against the table, good and hard. He's using both hands to manhandle you now like the rag doll you are, like the whore you've become, so at this point he's no longer holding his gun. Though you miss the feeling of the lethal hunk of metal on your skin, you realize soon enough that his dick is an even deadlier weapon. At the sensation of his leaking tip lining up with your soaking wet slit, and the words that now fall from his lips, you pretty much die on the instant. "Gonna lay down the law on this sweet little cunt."

And Dean doesn't waste a second doing just that. Drives in deep and fucks you up, pounding your dripping pussy rough and fast, and from the first thrust it's already the best sex you've ever had. While his left hand keeps your cuffed wrists firmly pinned above your head, his right hand digs into the cleavage of your slutty nurse outfit, then brutally rips it to pieces, giving his ravenous mouth full access to your tits. You let out a scream of bliss as he attacks your aching nipples with his skillful tongue and lips, and as his hand slides down your torso till his thumb reaches your clit, flicking and toying with it as he keeps on destroying your cunt with his dominant dick. 

"Damn, such a hot fucking nurse," he growls as his ravenous mouth wanders upward, sucking and biting at your neck, leaving hickeys all over. "You like officer's cock tearing up this tight pussy of yours? Like the way it hurts?"

"Oh God,  _yes_...!" you cry out, your whorish voice so desperate and loud you barely recognize the sound. "Yes, sir!"

"Good girl," Dean wickedly purrs, knowing this kind of praise makes your toes curl. "Bet you can't wait to come all over this big dick. That what you want, bitch? Gonna come for me?"

Words pour out of your mouth somehow, even when it feels like you've lost the ability to speak. " _Fuck_ —yes officer,  _please_!"

"Yeah, that's it, you dirty slut," he grunts, claiming your lips in a passionate kiss, devouring your mouth for a second before he breathes these mind-blowing words into it. "Come. Fucking come. Wanna feel this tight cunt squirt all over me."

It happens the instant he says it. Obviously. Every nerve, every cell in your body, explodes violently, leaving you a complete senseless heap by the time Dean pulls out of your pulsating cunt and forces you back down toward the floor, on your knees. As much as you both would've loved it if he came deep in your pussy, even more so you're both dying to have his entire load shoot down your slutty fucking throat. With your hands cuffed behind your back, kneeling down so that the high heels you're wearing dig into your ass, eyes wide and fixated on your officer's perfect face, head lost in a dumb haze as you submit to the fire of his dominant gaze, and the force of his dick pumping deep in and out past your overstretched lips, while he holds your whole head, body and soul in his control and keeps on tightening his grip... there is no better way for Dean to come than just like this.

And he does. You seriously cannot wrap your head around how damn delicious he is. But you can wrap your tongue and lips and your entire mouth around him, so you do, like you were born to, watching as he throws his gorgeous head back with a low, extended groan and shoots rope after rope of thick, hot, creamy come down your dirty whore throat. This is what you both needed most. 

Yet no matter how good it feels, still it won't really be enough to heal, to cure his fears and mend the wounds deep in his soul. He knows. And so do you. It's not what's on your mind in this moment, but still, it's so painfully true. For now you can just act as if it doesn't matter, though. You've given him all the healing that you possibly could—playing nurse, your sole purpose to serve and to please, before getting down on your knees to obey him as your officer, offering the submission that the dominant beast deep inside him needs—and  _damn_ , it felt so good. For you, at least. You're sure it did for him, too, as you gaze up at him towering over you, green eyes fluttering beautifully as he tries and fails to recover from the waves of pleasure still rippling powerfully all through his body. His cock hasn't left your mouth yet. When it finally does, you desperately press your lips and tongue all over it, lavishing loving kisses up and down his throbbing shaft and dripping head, sloppy and wet.  _So. Fucking. Perfect._

You wish you could go on like this forever. Soon enough though, as with all good things, your time together has to end... so till then, you'll take whatever you can get.

"Thank you, officer," you murmur as you look up at him and slurp every last lingering drop of come from his cock, savoring him all over. "Are... are you feeling better? Was I a good little nurse?"

He smiles sweetly down at you and strokes your head, no longer playing cop for a second. He's just Dean. All Dean in this moment, pure and true, standing over you, blissful and breathless. And it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. For whatever it's worth—for all the healing that you've given, no matter how much he still hurts—the answer that he gives you now is honest. "Oh God, yes."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked that :D Always grateful for kudos and comments!! <3
> 
> Only one more episode of Season 1 left...


	22. (S01E22) Gotcha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 22 ("Devil's Trap")*
> 
> *In which you are Meg Masters, the human—first as vessel for a demon, and then... for another special someone*
> 
> Dean sets a trap. For a demon. But he ends up catching a lot more than just that...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeere is the finale of Season 1 of SPN XXX :D
> 
> I really hope you guys enjoy it!! For those who don't remember much of the scene from Episode 16, I would recommend maybe going back and rereading it... There are some references to that incident that might be more effective if the memory is nice and vivid ;)
> 
> As a heads up, at the risk of spoilers: this scene has the most Destiel yet. But the girl reader is still at the center of all of it :)

***Scene deleted from Season 1, Episode 22 ("Devil's Trap")***

***In which you are Meg Masters, the human—first as vessel for a demon, and then... for another special someone***

 

****

 

 _Bitch_.

That's the word that keeps on pounding through your tortured mind with every passing second. Tortured, because a fucking demon has forced her filthy self inside your head, taken possession, claimed control over your body and your soul. 

 _It's been a year_ , you think. A whole goddamned year since that happened. You have no clue what you'd ever done to deserve this—of all people, why did the bitch have to choose  _you_ , poor Meg Masters? You're just an innocent student from Massachusetts, a sweet young college girl. Or at least that's what you were. Before her.

You've been forced to watch, a firsthand front-row witness to each sin this wicked creature has committed in your skin. You've lost track of how much brutal bloodshed there has been. Including your own—you're dead in your own skin, after falling from a building. The beast in your meat is the only thing keeping you kicking. You're not sure if you even give a shit anymore, now that you've lost track of what it even means to be living. Hell, by this time, you've lost track of everything. Except for one. Except for  _him_.

Dean. Dean Winchester. You remember how your first glimpse of the man had made you feel so damn  _alive_ , even when you had this deadly evil thing inside, taking your body for a ride. The demon in your skin was just as smitten—you recall how you could feel the way she raped him with her eyes.  _Your_  eyes. That had been in a bar in Chicago, not too long ago. You remember how much Dean and the demon hated each other, and how that hatred only served to fuel the fire of their dark, dirty desires. And you still vividly recall what had gone down, later on, that one night in the warehouse. Every fucking hardcore pornographic minute. Even though that throaty-voiced being, that flash of white light, had made them both forget.

Whoever or whatever he was, after appearing from the future and making some cryptic confession or other... that being had made sure to wipe all memory of the incident from Dean's head. And from the demon's. Everything—from the depraved, degrading sex to the arrival of the mysterious celestial guest. But as for you? Somehow he must've forgotten that you even exist. So you're the only one who remembers it. You and Castle, or... or whatever his name is.

And you're glad as hell that you remember it so well. Ever since that moment, the memory of it has become your happy place—the best way to escape, while you're still trapped inside yourself. You're able to find peace and bliss, just dwelling on how fucking good it felt. Yeah, it's twisted and sick, the fact that your sole source of pleasure now is reminiscing about some virtual stranger dominating and degrading every inch of you and treating you like shit. 

But that's how it is. And you're not even ashamed of it. Not one bit, to be honest. Because it was Dean Fucking Winchester, the glorious sex god, the flawless Adonis. Never in all your human life had you been wetter. It was utter hate sex, between him and the monster, and no sex could ever be better. Everything about what he had done was so damn  _perfect_. Pure heaven, the way he choked you half to death with his huge rock hard dick, then threw you down to the ground to torture and trample all over your tits... how insanely delicious his sweaty feet tasted, when he let you kiss and lick suck on them for a hot minute, before he squatted on your face to make you fucking suffocate as he rubbed his sweet ass all over your lips... the sensation of swallowing down everything that came out of him, every precious drop that he would deign to feed his bitch, all that creamy come and golden piss, and just serving and worshiping him as his subhuman fucktoy, his literal toilet... and his dirty talk,  _oh God_ —just the thought always gets you off—the humiliating filth he said, and how deeply he meant every word of it...

The demon inside you deserved it. Dean would never fuck an actual human being just  _that_  savagely—maybe pretty damn close, if a bitch really begged for it, but not  _that_  bad, without even a shadow of humanity; you're sure of it. But even when you weren't the target, even when Dean didn't even know that you existed, a poor vessel possessed, when he really believed the monster was the only one receiving it... still you got off on all the soul-crushing abuse and degradation just as much as she did.

So yeah. That's your happy place. That's what you'll keep on dreaming about, for as long as this demon remains in your meatsuit, every damn minute of every day. You have Castle to thank, for letting you retain your memories, by some great big stroke of celestial grace. Or some holy mistake. Whatever it had been, you'll fucking take. 

Now you can just focus on this, instead of wallowing in misery, dwelling on what a bitch this demon is. Focus instead on the pure bliss of being Dean Winchester's bitch.

But something snaps you out of your daydreaming daze, today, all of a sudden. It comes to your attention that the next stop on this demon's bloody rampage is a city called Salvation. And as you see the thoughts running across her mind, you know exactly why, and you're so excited you could die—because that's where  _he_  is. The only salvation you'll ever want to find. 

Dean is waiting in Salvation, and the dream, the memory of him that the angel let you keep... might come to life again.

 

***************

 

By the time you catch up, it turns out they're no longer in Salvation. But it's not as if you give a shit what city Dean is in. The only shits you give are about his fine ass and his flawless dick and every other inch of him.  _Fuck location._

In any event, Dean and Sam are in Sioux Falls now, in some old drunk Bobby Singer's house. Upon arrival, you—or the creature inside you, given that she still has complete control over your body—violently kicks the door open.

Bullshit ensues for a minute. This demon always acts as if she wants to cut the crap, but really, she's all about bullshit. Pouring on the sass, to cover up how bad she wishes it were Dean's hot piss instead of holy water in that flask, as he unscrews the cap... how much she hates the fact that she has to fight back, to play her part as a demonic badass, flinging his beautiful body across the room before he can attempt a holy splash... watching him crash against a stack of books and trying not to be distracted by the bare skin showing just above his belt when his shirt shifts upon impact. It's useless—every inch of Dean is, of course, crafted for exactly that: to distract.

So that's the effect that his presence has. Before she knows it, the demon is gonna waltz her evil ass straight into the Winchesters' trap.

"... and then he leaves the real gun with you two chuckleheads," she says, going off about how underwhelming their father John is. "Lackluster, men. I mean, did you  _really_  think I wouldn't find you?"

That's when Dean's voice chimes in. And at the sound of it, neither you nor the demon could hope to deny, even if you should try, that you are now his absolute bitch. _Good God, that voice of his._  Husky and deep and rich, fifty shades of sin, a hundred shades of fucking heaven. Especially when he's all smug and cocky like this. He has every damn reason to be, given how big and beautiful you know his cock is. "Actually... we were counting on it."

His dark emerald gaze blazes into the monster's—into  _yours_ —to the core, for a moment, before shifting to lift toward the ceiling. Your own gaze follows as realization dawns on the demon. As she sees the devil's trap she's in.

It's obvious that Dean has won. That both you and the monster inside you are his. But still, it's hot as fuck when he says it.  _You could get off on just the superior curve of those scrumptious pink lips, that self-satisfied look in his sparkling green eyes..._ Hot enough to kill, and what a way to die.

And he knows it. He owns you now, and he's not afraid to show it. And to say it. So he does just that, watching and smirking as the demon comes undone, how wet your meatsuit gets, succumbing to his dominance. Asserting it with full effect, upon what he says next. "Gotcha."

 

***************

 

 _This devil's trap was a damn good excuse to just give in—to not even try to resist getting bound up and totally controlled by him_ , the demon in you thinks. And you're sure as hell thinking it, too. Having tied you up to a chair beneath the circle on the ceiling, in the center of the room, Dean is now watching you in silence, fine ass perched against a desk, hands resting on his sturdy thighs as he destroys you with his eyes. Sitting and staring back at him in pure submission is all you can fucking do.

The demon is still in the driver's seat, though. Soon enough, she is able to snap out of this hazy trance of arousal and summon your voice to your throat. Say something flirty, still cracking provocative jokes while she's stuck in this trap, 'cause she's dirty like that. "You know, if you wanted to tie me up... all you had to do was ask."

Neither Winchester brother responds to her sass. The old drunk dude comes back. Mentions something about having salted the windows and doors so that no other demons can get in. 

And that's Dean's cue. With a slow nod, he moves around the other two to stand in front of you.

Then he speaks, and you can feel the monster in you fight the urge to just surrender, give him everything he needs. "Where's our father, Meg?" he demands.

"You didn't ask very nice," she purrs back.  _God, you hope he'll punish her for that with a good, hard bitch-slap..._

But he does something even better. The next words off of his lips hit even harder, get you even wetter. "Where's our father, bitch?"

While your own consciousness is reeling with arousal, the demon makes a brutal joke about Dean's mom. A real low blow that utterly pisses him off. And you're glad that she had—because all of a sudden he's lunging toward you now, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair where you're bound, his flawless face inches away from your own as he furiously stares you down.

"You think this is a friggin' game?!" he rasps, and at the receiving end of all his rage, you're pretty sure that you just came. "Where is he? What did you do to him?"

Dean won't let up with his demands about his dad. So the creature in you plays into that. Answers with the one thing that's most certain to get his blood boiling. She's supposedly egging him on just for fun, acting on some sadistic impulse as a demon. But you both know the real reason. The Winchester's red-blooded anger turns her the fuck on; she's nothing but a desperate whore, digging for more. And lucky for her, as well as her meatsuit, she's doing it well. "He died screaming. I killed him myself."

 _Oh yes. Oh yes._  You could stare forever at that face that Dean makes, in this instant— _the fire in his gaze, the twitch of his lips_... it feels like both you and the demon are coming, simply from seeing him like this.

Just a moment ago, you'd thought Dean's dirty talk hits even harder than his hand. That his verbal abuse cuts into you more viciously, gets you off more violently, than any physical act ever can. But hot  _damn_ , were you wrong about that.

What he does to you now isn't just a bitch-slap. It's a fucking death blow; you and he both know that the demon deserves that. You can hear your bones crack, from the force of the impact. With a cry and a gasp, you can feel your neck practically snap.

 _How screwed up is it that your cunt is completely exploding in bliss? What kind of unholy fuckery is this?_  As soon as the questions run through your dumb head, you remember—you don't give a shit. You just fucking need more of it.

So does the demon, based on the honest words she utters next. "That's kind of a turn-on... you hitting a girl," she shamelessly says.

Dean shoots a dark glare at the sick, twisted creature. Piercing straight through your human eyes, this mortal shell, into the monster that's inside. A glare so hot it makes your toes curl, as he dishes out the hateful truth—not to you, but to her. "You're no girl."

 

***************

 

More shit happens. Go figure, this Mr. Singer—unlike the Winchester brothers, who apparently are rookie hunters—knows a thing or two about demons. About how possession works. He lets the boys in on the secret: that you're trapped inside, this whole time while the devilish bitch takes you for a ride. A human girl, alone and innocent, a victim in your own skin.

Dean says that's good news; you're not sure what he means. Until he tells Sam to get started on an exorcism. And the demon knows exactly what that means—black smoke and screams. Getting sent back to the fiery pit, far away from this scene...  _Far away from Dean._

That's what terrifies you, in this moment. Not the fact that as soon as the demon is out of your suit, the cold shell of yourself will be left behind, empty and dead. That you can accept. But the fact that you'll part from this earth without having been ravaged by Dean, fucked to death? After all this foreplay? No way—hell no to that. You just  _can't_.

But it seems you're gonna have to. Bobby and the boys go back and forth, conflicted as to what to do with you. The old man reminds them that your body is broken, so badly that you'll be dead if they complete the exorcism. Dean thinks that's how it should be. That they should put you out of your misery. You wish he could hear you in here, pleading desperately— _the only way for you to end my misery is to fuck the shit out of me_...

Sam ends up siding with his brother, of course. And that's the end of it. You're fucking done for.

It's impossible to describe, the feeling of the demon bursting forth, dark smoke spreading across the ceiling, then disappearing, finally leaving this earth, no longer here inside your body and your mind, leaving a sack of skin behind. For better or for worse, apparently you won't die on the spot, or so you find. The aftereffects of possession must take a few minutes or seconds to slowly unwind. You don't know how much longer you have, but here in the presence of this divine man, you're grateful for any span of time.

Dean sees that you're still alive. Orders Bobby to call 911, get some water and blankets, while the brothers unbind you and lower you onto the floor, as slowly and carefully as they can manage—they can only imagine how much your whole body must hurt.

And it sure as fuck does. But that isn't what matters. You're just glad to be gazing up into these glorious dark emerald eyes, as you die.

Words are spoken. What words, you're not sure; your consciousness is fading with each passing moment. Something about their father's location. Something about sunrise.

 _You're dying. You're dying._ But then... 

 

"Hello, Meg. Would you please let me in?"

 

 ***************

 

 _It's Castle._  The celestial thing, or whatever he is. You would recognize that voice anywhere, and the familiar, mysterious sensation of his presence—though you can't quite comprehend every word that he's saying, and you've probably got his name wrong. But that's not what's important. The important thing is that he's requesting permission. For you to... let him in?

He seems to be visiting from some other time, again. From the future or something. Or maybe some other dimension.  _But what does he want with you?_  You had gathered from his last appearance that he has some strong, deep connection to Dean, and some sort of bond with that demon.  _But you're just a poor, insignificant human..._

Castle can read your mind. Naturally, given that he's all kinds of divine.He confirms that what had brought him to this scene, at first—just like the last time—was his profound connection to Dean, and his ties to the demon. And yet now, he is here for you. He feels your pain and wants to give you what you crave. The chance to live, just long enough to ask Dean for a parting gift. The greatest possible joy, a last blessing before you die.

You carry on a conversation with him in your mind. "But... but why?"

"I am an angel of the lord. My mission is to bless those who are good, to offer the salvation they deserve. This is what you have earned, Meg. After all the suffering that you've endured. Your heart is good and pure."

_Yeah, sure—tell that to the bad little girl, the dirty slut that I've become ever since laying eyes on Dean Winchester..._

Cas ignores that, if he heard it. He isn't finished. "Though in the spirit of full disclosure," he goes on, "I should mention that I also do have a selfish incentive, in this. I wish—well, I wish to experience a certain... forbidden pleasure."

Well, that sure as hell piques your curiosity.

"The memory that I left in your mind. From the last time. That memory..." Castle's voice trails off, slightly, as if each word that he dares to speak is a sin. "I need you to let me touch it. The memory of—of that kind of experience with him... that is the selfish reason why I've asked for you to let me in. I just want to know what it feels like. From inside, from in your skin."

You don't hesitate for long. After he let you keep that precious memory, letting him share it is the least that you can do for him.

So you say yes. You let him in. It's your second possession, but it's so... so  _different_ , from having been taken by a demon. You feel full of light, and then— _oh_. The sensation that hits you next is a sudden earth-shattering explosion. 

Whatever just happened, inside of yourself, you can only imagine that it must have been... well, some sort of celestial orgasm.

" _Holy_... holy mother of assbutt," Cas murmurs, his angelic voice soft and hushed, now from inside your head. He's recovering from having felt the full memory of what you experienced with Dean in that warehouse, no doubt. "Thank you. Wow. Thank you  _so_  very much."

Then he explains that he's going to hand you the reins. Let you have what you crave. He retreats to the back of your mind, still present inside just to keep you alive, and you're gazing right back up at Dean when you open your eyes.

His own beautiful green eyes go wide. His lips part, as he senses the beat of your heart, the lifeblood pounding through your veins, a life set to restart. You had been truly dead, for at least a few seconds. Yet now here you are, breathing, alive again...

Before Dean can call out for Bobby or Sam, both of whom are conveniently off in the other room, you reach up to tenderly grasp his hand. Words come to you, somehow, and they feel like your own... you can't help but think some part of what you're saying now is coming from the angel, though. "Hello, Dean. I suppose I just need you so bad that I had to come back."

The words that fall out of his mouth now are so goddamn cute. "What the fuck?"

You smile. Inside of you, so does the angel. "Just trust it," you urge him. "I promise I'm not a demon. Or a zombie or anything. It's just me. And before I die, this is just...  _you_ are what I need."

He pauses, brows furrowed adorably. "You mean..."

You smile again and reach up to caress his blushing cheek. "Yes, Dean."

Dean gets what you mean, obviously. "Damn. So your desperate death wish is just... for us to have sex?" he asks. "I'm flattered, Meg, honestly but—but  _why_? I... I mean, we're practically strangers. I only just found out that you—the human you—even exists. And you don't really know me."

Castle slips into the front seat just then. He means well; it's probably just an innocent accident. The voice that speaks is still your own, but the words are beyond your control. "Don't I, though?"

Dean blinks at you. He stares into your eyes. Past you, at what's inside. And then it's like he fucking  _sees_ , straight through. The look that falls across his face is more than you can take. He fucking knows. "Wait—no..."

"Yes," your voice says.  _Was that you or the angel?_ You couldn't quite tell.

"Son of a  _bitch_ ," Dean curses, stepping away from where you're laying on the floor, covering his face with his hand as if he can escape from everything, from what he feels and who he is. "I can't fucking do this."

Cas shrinks back into the corner of your mind, then, with regret. He knows it was unfair of him to interfere here, in your final moments. 

You're all yourself again, as you lift from your lying position, up onto your knees. "Dean... Dean, please."

He dares to look at you again, thankfully, and blinks at what he sees. He can tell that you're just you right now. No doubt he thinks that he has just gone raving mad. "Fuck, I'm gonna get whiplash..."

You blink back up at him in silence.

He shakes his head. "God, I'm sorry, Meg. I think I'm just imagining some—some crazy shit. It's..."

"It's okay, Dean," you reassure him, rising to your feet and walking over to the desk that he is now standing against. You know more than he thinks, and you don't need an explanation. Just need him to slam you down onto that surface. Now more than ever, he is everything you need. "Because, if I'm honest, I mean... I've imagined you doing all kinds of crazy shit to me..."

"Mmm, really?" he growls suggestively as you approach, and you can tell he's giving in as you come close. His gleaming green eyes trace your face, then wander over your neck, down past your throat. Lingering on your breasts, peaks stiff beneath the fabric of your shirt, before his gaze lifts up again to lock on yours, intensely. "Damn, that demon was a bitch. Such a shame she had to go and ruin somebody so sweet. So pretty."

"Well," you whisper in his ear as you lean in closer, "I ain't complaining. Getting ruined by a demon is what got me close to you, Dean."

A low chuckle slips past his luscious pink lips. "I'm supposed to think that's worth it?"

"Of course it is," you murmur, your own parted lips gliding across the stubble on his cheek, shifting down a bit to hover at his chin before you claim a kiss. "You oughta know that you're worth everything. You're perfect."

Dean laughs softly again, angling his head away from the imminent kiss. For more reasons than he wants to admit, he isn't ready for it. Not yet. "No offense, Meg, but that's just a near-death delusion or something. Not to be morbid."

"As if it's the first time you've heard it," you mumble, deciding to let your face descend toward his neck, to kiss him there instead, because you can. He lets you kiss his gorgeous neck all over. "Every girl alive knows it. And not just the girls."

"Huh?" he breathes as your hands instinctively begin unbuttoning his shirt.

 _Oh._ That thing you'd said— _not just the girls_... it must've been another slip from Castle. You clear your throat as you continue removing his clothes, coming up with a lame cover. "I just mean—everyone... in the world..."

Dean dismisses it, for better or for worse. Changes the subject, though he doesn't stop you as you finally finish with the buttons and peel off his shirt. "Sweetheart, are... are you sure?" he murmurs. "That this is how you want to spend your last moments on earth? I just—I dunno, I've never had dying wish sex, and I guess... there's a whole lot of pressure..."

 _God, he is fucking adorable._  But you both know that what's giving him pause isn't this so-called pressure. It's what he saw—or  _who_ —hiding there deep inside of you, moments before. 

With touch as well as words, you try to calm and reassure. You've gotten rid of that one shirt, but there's still another layer underneath, a dark gray tee. "Don't worry about a thing, Dean. Just having you like this is everything I need. Though I do wish you were inside of me already..."

" _Shit_ , baby," Dean gasps as your hand suddenly drops to cradle the big, raging bulge in his jeans. "I... uh..."

Your tight grasp— _though it feels like Cas's, for an instant_ —gives Dean's package a passionate squeeze. "Please?"

"Ugh, fuck it," Dean grunts, and then next thing you know, his hands are all over your body, and he's spun you around to pin you down hard onto the desk. "Fuck it.  _Fuck_  yes."

 _God, he is fucking perfect._  And he works quick—in just a few seconds, your shirts have been ripped off and flung to the floor, both yours and his. His magic hands and mouth are at your neck, then at your tits, and then he's reaching to claw through your jeans and your panties and unleash his dick, and...

Words from the angel slip out once again from your lips. "In the ass. I need you in my ass, Dean. Please."

He pauses for a split second. That isn't quite what any guy would expect, from a girl on her deathbed.  _What chick would actually prefer anal sex, in a moment like this?_  You must be insane. Clearly that's what Dean thinks. Won't let himself suspect that the request had come from someone else.  _Definitely not from a male angel or anything._  Dean bites his lip and blinks. "Really?"

Cas shies away again, surely feeling ashamed of his selfish indulgence, a little bit guilty. He doesn't have to be.  _Because Dean Winchester fucking the shit out of your ass, hard and dirty... well, that sounds like pure heaven, honestly._  You assure Dean then, fully yourself again. "Yes, really. Please."

And that's all the assurance he needs. Dean fucking loves shoving his cock nice and deep in a tight little asshole. Loves the way tearing bitches in half always makes him feel whole. For a moment, at least. He's all kinds of broken, and always will be, but the mind-blowing high that he gets from good sex— _sex that's just the way he likes it: sinfully filthy and kinky, hard and rough and fast, when the slut is fucking begging for it just like that_... is the best way to hide from how broken he is. His favorite escape from that fact.

As for you? Well, that celestial orgasm that you'd experienced when first letting Castle in... it's happening on an endless loop right now. Again and again and again.  _Absolute actual heaven, even more so when it never fucking ends..._

At a certain point, you're so far gone that Cas kind of has no choice but to step in and take control. In the midst of his own bliss, he takes a tone that has no business being so serious, and ends up saying something very stupid. Which is unfortunate, when he is still pretending to be you. "Dean. You should know that... well, I'm not the only one here who is going to die very soon."

Dean's hips halt mid-thrust, which should not feel as insanely good as it does. "The hell does that mean?" he asks hoarsely.

Castle bites his lip. Your lip. Tries to just focus again on the perfect feeling of Dean's massive dick in his ass.  _Your_  ass. "Never mind. I just want you to know, Dean—that your first death, whenever it happens, will not be your last. And through life and death, in this world and the next..."

Dean groans and buries his face in your neck. Part of him can clearly tell that you're possessed by someone else. But that's a fact that he can't let himself accept. "Meg, I dunno what you're trying to get at, but—that kind of talk ain't great for sex..."

The angel hides away in shame again and urges you up to the surface. You follow his lead. You don't even know what he meant, about Dean—it breaks your heart to think that this divine god of a man is soon to die himself. 

But you take comfort in the angel's words. Somehow you know that Dean's first death won't last for very long.  _Thank God._

You still regret that he had to hear that, though. You tell him so. "I know. I'm sorry."

He eases into his pace then, fucking you again, taking you back to heaven. Mumbling words into your skin. "Don't mention it. All's forgiven."

 _Then forgive yourself—for everything_ , you hear Cas mutter in your head. But he keeps that in. Apparently a constant theme throughout the future is that Dean Winchester blames himself for every damn thing, all the self-professed sins that he'll never forgive, for as long as he lives.

In the meantime Dean keeps on fucking your ass.  _So good. Maybe a little... too good? Given that you kind of want it bad..._

You're on your deathbed, so you figure you have to ask. "Dean—can you please, um, do it like... like that?"

Some part of him knows what you mean. You can both tell that he's holding back. But he pretends not to know it. "Like what?"

 _It really is a shame that he forgot, the first time he had fucked the demon in your skin. Completely fucked her up._ He may have forgotten the incident, but that doesn't mean he can't repeat it. "The way you really want."

He creases his brows but keeps on pounding into you, hard. Doesn't slow down or stop. "Huh?"

You decide to just be blunt. "Like I'm a good-for-nothing slut."

"Ugh  _God_ —" he pants, hips jerking sharply so that his huge cock hits a new spot deep inside your ass, balls slapping into your cheeks with an especially loud, sloppy smack, his pelvis grinding hard against your soaking cunt. "No, that—that just seems... wrong."

 _Fuck that_ , you think, suddenly in the mood to talk back, as if possessed by that damn demon again. "What, 'cause I'm dying? But isn't that all the more reason to give a poor girl what she wants?"

Dean promptly cuts you off. " _Stop_."

And at that one word, you're powerless to even try to resist anymore. "Yes, sir." 

He digs that. As he should. His lips curve up into a deliciously dominant smirk. "Good girl."

Hearing that feels so damn  _good_ , for you— _but as for Cas_... well, he's no girl. And he knows it. So those words cause him to shrink away behind your eyes, to hide even deeper inside.

Yet then the strangest fucking thing happens. It's almost as if Dean... as if he doesn't want to see the angel hide.  _As if he wants to bring him to the surface. As if..._

All of a sudden, he's claiming your lips in a passionate kiss. And it feels like a promise, one made true and pure from the core of his heart and his soul— _a kiss that feels like it can cross space and time, one that's destined to carry the weight of the whole goddamned world..._

It's not for you. But you're not supposed to know that. So you'll just pretend that you don't. You gasp, spent and breathless, once Dean finally pulls his sweet lips off of yours for a moment. Pretend to be oblivious, as Cas steps back to recover from that earth-shattering kiss. "What was that for?"

Dean looks as if his soul has been run over by a fucking bulldozer. It's so fucking precious. "I dunno," he grumbles, hiding in your neck again, already blaming himself for the shit that just happened, whatever the hell it had been. You can feel his teeth grazing your skin; you both know that his bite scratches your every itch. "Just shut up and take it. Bitch."

And that's exactly what you do. For the next however many minutes you have left, however much longer you still have to live, you're gonna take every damn thing that Dean gives. Every bite, every kiss, every push of his hips as he crushes and claims your whole body and soul with his huge fucking dick. And when you're on the edge of what you're sure will have to be the end, you find that, right then... well, you want to let the angel come back in. You want him here, for this. Cas deserves it. It's the least that you can do to thank him. To thank him for everything. For this gift, even if some part of it was based in selfishness. You can't blame him for that. Not one bit. So you invite him, and he's powerless to resist the invitation. You let him take the front seat, though it's still your voice that speaks.

You're close—oh  _God_ , you're close, as Dean's powerful cock drives into your core even harder, deeper, pounding till you're sure that you are both gonna explode...

"Dean!  _Deeean_...!" you scream his name, a dying plea. He looks into your eyes, then shuts his own. You both know why. But you can't... Cas can't let him. "Dean, look at me—please..."

Dean buries his face in your neck again, hiding and biting, as if just to spite his own pain. To deny what he wants, what he needs. The air that he breathes. "No."

" _Please_..."

"I said  _no_ , damn it...!" he rasps. But then he does. For reasons even he could never fathom, something just compels him, to raise his head and meet your gaze then. The gaze of the angel inside you. The angel he loves.

It's all Cas, in this moment, the words that now fall from your tongue. "I love you, Dean. I love you so much."

And then it's done. Because feeling is one thing—something Dean can always deny, or at least try—but  _hearing_  it, like this, is just...

Dean pulls out and pulls back. Every wall has gone up. Every wall that he has, and he's building new ones, just for that.

Cas is filled with regret. Goes back into hiding, deeper than ever inside your head.

Sammy is in the other room. Hearing and  _feeling_  everything. Though he'll go to his grave, someday, pretending that he never did.

And then it's just you. You're all that's left. Just lying there, vessel of so much more than a mortal should ever bear. Tears rise to your eyes, and you hate how it feels, to be on the verge of the most perfect pinnacle of heaven, just to be left hanging from the edge and then to end up crying like this right when you're about to fucking die. 

So you lash out at Dean, because... because you can, because he's still here in the room, at least, and well... because just  _fuck_. This is all too damn much. "How—how could you do that to me?  _Seriously_ , Dean? To a dying girl, I—I just..."

"You shut the  _fuck_  up," he barks furiously, leaning down over your body again, his upper lip twitching with rage, gaze ablaze with a fire like you've never seen. 

The sight of him like that is arousing as fuck. But also kind of horrifying. Till you realize that he's talking not to you, but to the angel hiding in your skin. Cas is all that he can see. For now at least.

"It's just like I said to the demon before," he snarls. "You're no girl."

The angel knows it. Rises briefly to the surface, then, filled with the urge to apologize. As if that will accomplish anything. "Dean, I'm so sorry..."

"What the hell do you want from me?" Dean desperately asks, clutching your face in his hands. The angel's face. "What do you want, Cas? What... who even  _are_ you? That—that night, with the goddamn white light—I know I was supposed to forget. But I didn't. I  _couldn't_. Ever since then, why do I fucking feel like..."

But the angel has already said all that he came to say. To speak of Dean's impending death, to let him know that it won't be his last. To confess his undying love. To say that he is sorry. And he is—for what he's done. So much that he has done. But not for what he feels. For that, the way that his immortal heart was made to beat for Dean... he will never be sorry.

Dean's voice trails and he blinks. The sudden absence hits him harder than the presence ever did.  _It all happened too fast._  He says the name, though deep down he knows that you're alone now, the only one that he can ask. "...Cas?"

Back on the verge of death, all you can manage is a choking gasp. "Cas—just... he just left."

The look in Dean's evergreen eyes now paints a painful, perfect picture of how fucking much he hates himself. "Then... then you're..."

 _Dead._  You finish the sentence like that, in silence, in your head. Hoping that what you say aloud now will hurt him just a little bit less."Yes."

"Wait—Meg, please, just  _wait_ —" he begs, though you both know that it's in vain. "I'm sorry..."

You don't want him to be. But you know you can't heal Dean from that, not from any of it—the guilt, the regret, the self-hatred. If anyone ever can... well, he just left. But you don't doubt that he'll cross paths with Dean again. That they're destined to be together in the end. Having witnessed what you did, you don't doubt it for a minute. And you feel blessed just to have been a part of it— _something so beautiful, so big..._

There is no time to dwell on this. No time to dwell on anything. You're dying. And as you do, all you can feel is that you're grateful to have truly lived. What you experienced with Dean and with his angel— _no matter how full of pain, how tortured and twisted it may have been, for you and both of them_... in spite of and because of all of that, it was the greatest, the most perfect parting gift. 

You thank him for it, as you leave. Glad that his name is the last thing you'll ever breathe. "Thank you. For everything. Goodbye, Dean."

 

***************

 

 _It's so obvious_ , you think to yourself as Castle guides your soul up to heaven— _so obvious why a motherfucking celestial being is destined to be the true love of Dean's life_. Dean is an absolute god of sex, and he loves fucking girls, girls and more girls, more than almost anything else. As he should, when he does it so well. When he's that fucking good.

But when it comes down to the real stuff?  _God, it's just so obvious._ No mere girl could ever deserve Dean Winchester. Ever be worthy of, ever love him enough. Not even all the grace in heaven holds a candle to how bright he shines, how beautiful he is, how fucking fine, on the surface, of course, but even more so deep inside, how strong, how brave, how truly perfect, pure and  _good_. No being in this universe, or any universe, ever could. Every girl in the world knows it, deep down. Any bitch who has a chance at any piece of him would take it gladly and should count herself beyond lucky. But there's no use daring to dream of, somehow, being everything Dean wants and needs.

And yet this Castle in the sky, this angel with the bright blue eyes... he dares to try.  _Who even knows why_ —maybe because he, alone among the host of heaven, strives to strike that sacred balance between human and divine. The balance that Dean Winchester, alone among all men, could ever find. Dean doesn't have to strive for that; he doesn't have to try, to be perfect. He just has to exist.

But he does. Harder than anyone, Dean always tries, his best, better than all the rest, hard and with all his heart, at everything he does. That's what makes him even  _more_  perfect, even more worthy of love, than he was born to be. Destined to be. In every way, Dean Winchester transcends his destiny.

Or maybe every way but one. Maybe there's one piece, just one part of his destiny, to which his heart wants to give in...

Castiel— _that's his name_ , you realize, now finally getting it right—thanks you for the ride, for the sweet time inside. You're carrying on some sort of silent soulful conversation with him, as he ushers you to heaven. You reply that you're the one who should be thanking him. He makes a comment about how good it had felt to be a human, in your skin, for just a moment, feeling the memory of Dean from within, on the receiving end of the complete dominance that a god like a him should give—the kind of degrading, dehumanizing dominance that Dean would probably never dish out to any other human, for as long as he lives... You acknowledge to Cas how lucky you are that Dean had thought you were only a monster then, that night in the warehouse, with no clue all the while that the real you, a mortal girl, had been experiencing everything that was happening.

The angel smiles fondly, at that, a silent celestial laugh. Remarks that perhaps no girl could ever take it, anyway. The full extent of what Dean has to give. It seems too much for any girl to take.

With a smile of your own, you agree with him. And you can tell that he's not just talking about the sex. He's talking about  _all_  that Dean has to offer. From his body, his soul, and his heart. No mortal girl is strong enough to survive through so much, let alone to deserve that kind of love—a love to match the kind of sex that he was built to have: so bad it's good, so damned it's blessed, so wrong it's right, so dirty that it's pure... such perfect bliss, such heavenly pleasure. 

But then you remind Cas of what you hope he already knows. It's not about gender; it's not even a question of divinity or humanity, or some balance of both. It's beyond the fact that he's more than a girl, that he's an angel. It's the fact that he's  _Dean's_  angel. You hardly know either of them, and yet... you can just tell. To Dean, Castiel may as well be the only angel in the world.

You hope Cas knows just what you mean, as you echo these recent words from his beloved Dean. "You're no girl."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for following this journey to the end of Season 1!! Many more to come ;) ...
> 
> I always looove kudos and comments, so if you're enjoying this fic, please do bring them on <3


	23. (S02E01) Is This, Like, a Turn-On for You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 1 ("In My Time of Dying")*
> 
> *In which you are Tessa the reaper*
> 
> It's Dean's time to go. And you're the one destined to reap his soul, take him to heaven.
> 
> But as it turns out... he's the one who takes you there instead. Fulfilling every need you never even had, until the two of you first met.
> 
> Maybe it's not Dean's time to go. Not yet. But even if he's destined to come back to life, by the time the night ends—maybe, till then, you can share with him a lot of love, and filthy dirty sex... and just a little bit of death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the premiere of Season 2!! I'm soo excited for this season...
> 
> Hope you all enjoy this one :)

***Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 1 ("In My Time of Dying")***

***In which you are Tessa the reaper***

 

 

Shit—this _one is not gonna be easy_ , you think to yourself grimly _._  You know what you have to do. It's your job, this kind of thing; always has been. You  _have_ to.

And yet this one, your next near-death victim, lying in his hospital bed, unconscious and half-naked—he's so... he's just so fucking  _pretty_. His name is Dean Winchester, apparently. And he's got a literally flawless face: lashes for days, fringing closed lids that must be hiding the most gorgeous-colored gaze... golden-brown hair that's still spiked up and styled in the absolute sexiest way, even in his current state... adorable freckles sprinkled all over him, his smooth bare skin, so smooth it fucking glows... strong jawline and cheekbones, a statuesque nose, even more perfect with that crooked little tweak that barely even shows— _God, every inch of his body beneath these bedsheets is probably just as stunning_ , you think, from head to fucking toe...

Floating through the room, you hover over him and pause to take in his perfection. The sheer beauty of Dean is so superior to anyone or anything you've ever seen before. At least your job gives you a reason to reach out and touch him, even if neither of you can feel a thing—with his body practically lifeless, numb and limp, and with you in your otherworldly spiritual form. 

To everyone else here—the doctor and nurses trying to bring Dean back to life, pumping electric currents through his chest—you're invisible. No one has to notice the way you're shamelessly staring at his sculpted pecs, or the way your wispy hand reaches out, supposedly to finalize his death... though really, you're just hoping to grope that deliciously perky nipple.

_Ugh. Do you really have to kill someone so beautiful?_ You try to comfort yourself with the fact that you won't quite be killing Dean. Not really. You'll just be reaping his soul, guiding him on to the next life, another world. There's a difference between killing and reaping; you have to believe it, even if it doesn't feel that way. Even if they feel the same.

Anyway—it's Dean's time to go. You've been stalling, just staring at him, but you can't stay like this for much longer, you know.  _Can you really do it, though? Reap Dean Winchester's soul? Really...?_

Then next thing you know, all of a sudden you sense the presence of not one... but  _two_ versions of Dean.

In the bed is his nearly-dead body. But now he also appears in the doorway, behind his weeping brother, green eyes wide with horror as he looks into the room. You recognize this form of Dean on the instant; it's the vision of his spirit, stuck in this ethereal plane of existence, lost and confused. The version of him that can see you. 

The two versions look just the same—except that the spirit is clothed, in a white V-neck tee perfectly fitted to his frame, and pale blue hospital pants. _No spirit has any business looking so fucking sexy like that._ Through the thin blue fabric, you can easily glimpse his huge bulge and, as you can imagine if you'd been behind him, the heavenly curve of his ass. Plus he's barefoot, and...  _ugh, why are his naked feet such a turn-on for you? Why is his pinky toe so damn cute?_

Before you can think about that anymore, the spirit of Dean lunges toward you and speaks. "You get the hell away from me."

_Oh God, his voice—the raw rage that it radiates, that hoarse and husky rasp_... it's enough to give your heartless reaper self a fucking heart attack.

"Stay back!" he bellows, approaching swiftly till he's standing beside the bed, dangerously close. "I said  _get_   _back_!"

You struggle to ignore him, honestly afraid of what might happen if you dare to look or listen. Your duty to do your job is losing out against the urge to just... give in.  _To eagerly obey Dean Winchester's every command..._

And then, as if his gripping power over you isn't already strong enough, he fucking reaches out and  _touches you_. Something no spirit that you've met has ever dared to do. Dean shows no hesitation, just grabbing your soul-reaping arm in both of his big, sturdy hands.

No way in hell were you prepared for that sudden contact. Nor for its mind-blowing effects. At the touch of his spirit, your entire being explodes with desire, arousal and thirst, on the instant. His touch feels so damn good it hurts.  _What the fuck is even happening_... _reapers are not supposed to be able to feel such things_...

You really cannot handle whatever this is. And your impulse of panic generates a surge of spiritual energy—a defensive reaction, totally involuntary—that suddenly blasts Dean away from you, his back crashing into the wall across the room.

Cringing at what just happened, you curse yourself for having pushed him away, full of shame and self-blame even when it was an accident.  _Great, Tessa_ , you inwardly grumble.  _Real smooth. You think that's the kind of foreplay Dean is used to? You think that's how he likes to be seduced? Inflicting violence, hard and rough, is what_ he's _meant to do. Not the bitches he screws. Ugh. After pulling such a spastic move, how the hell are you going to get him to fuck you?_

...Not that that's what you want. Of course it's not.  _You are here to reap him. To do your damn job._ Reapers and spirits aren't even supposed to be able to fuck; you should know that. Clearly, you've gone crazy. Completely and utterly nuts.

Being in the same room as Dean is not good for your slipping grip on sanity. So you decide you have to leave. For now, that's all that you can do: just leave. Floating past him as you fly out the door, far away from this maddening scene.

_So now what_ , you wonder as you drift through the hospital hallways, aimless and unseen _. Are you gonna get fired?_  Honestly, you're not even sure what that would mean. Does your boss have some sort of official dismissal procedure? Or will your punishment be a more...  _final_  form of termination? You're certain that Death never had to address this kind of behavior previously. Reapers, by nature, don't do anything other than fulfill their deadly duties. They don't suffer from human sensations, temptations. You're probably the first horny reaper in history.

Which makes sense, you realize, since you were assigned to reap  _this guy_. How could Death expect any of his employees to stay sexless after setting eyes on Dean? It's not fair. It's cruel and unusual, even for Death, really.

But someone had to take on the job, once Dean Winchester's time on earth was up. It just so happens to be you.  _Just your luck._ You are seriously fucked.

So you're not at all surprised when Death shows up. But what he says next... now  _that_ you did not expect. You are seriously shocked.

Because he isn't here to fire you. He isn't here to kill you. There's nothing grim about what he came here to do. He is here to pimp you out. To Dean. Your orders are to take on a new form, a human form, and to show Dean how deeply pleasurable death can be. 

And if you play your cards right... you just might get to exist, alongside the flawless Adonis, in an eternal state of spiritual sexual intimacy.

Or at least that's what the boss promised.  _Should you believe him?_ You're not really sure. It sort of sounds like bullshit—but, well, even just the hope of it is more than you could ask for. Death has turned you into his little reaper whore. And now, you're sure as hell gonna fulfill your duties. Happily.

You're gonna be the first—the  _only_ —reaper ever to get fucked by Dean Winchester.

 

***************

 

At first, of course, Dean has no clue just who—or what—you truly are. Disguised as the spirit of a young woman who just had an appendectomy gone wrong, you roam the halls, calling out to all the strangers who apparently can't see that you exist. Just as Dean had done, when he took his first steps as a spirit. You ascend the main stairway, screaming for attention, from anyone, hoping he'll hear. He will, you're sure. He can't be far...

And sure enough, he appears at the foot of the stairs within seconds, approaching and asking if you can see him.  _Yes of course, you fucking gorgeous dumbass_ , you think.  _I just wish I could see through your pants. Though I guess your cock is so massive that I almost can_. 

You keep those smutty thoughts in, and just pretend to be distressed and confused, so that Dean can befriend and enlighten you. And it's wonderful, really. Just talking to him like an innocent human. Seeing him so earnest and serious, trying to comfort and help you through this, is all kinds of cute. Almost makes you wish this disguise were the real you.

For most of the afternoon, the charade continues. Death had ordered you not to reveal your identity. Told you that Dean would figure it out for himself, eventually.

Your boss was right. At some point, Dean rushes off to tend to a random emergency—and when you see him again, when he confronts you later on that night... there is a different look in his eyes. Gone is the brief companionship that you had shared. Now there's just hatred and rage in his dark emerald stare. The same look you'd received when he first saw you hovering over his body. Just more... contained, in this moment. Subtle and smoldering. He fucking hates you all over again. You know it. But this time, much to your chagrin, he's not going to touch you to show it.

Sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, in a dark room alone, you look up at the spirit of Dean standing in the doorway, still and silent.

Before he says a word, you speak up first. "Hi, Dean."

He doesn't bother echoing the greeting. "You know, you read the most interesting things," he says as he walks in. "For example, did you know that reapers can alter human perception?"

_Sigh_. Of course he's gonna quirk those sexy eyebrows now, acting all coy and cute about the fact that he is onto you.

"I sure didn't," he goes on, pausing to study your expressionless face for a second. "Basically, they can make themselves appear however they want. Like, say, a... a pretty girl."

_Well, fuck_ —now Dean is buttering you up, making you blush.  _Such a flirt._ And it works; those words from him make your nonexistent heart flutter, your fake human toes curl. It's stupid, and you know it, since your present appearance is nothing but a figment. But you don't even care, right this instant. You're just desperate for the compliment.

And he isn't finished. "You are much prettier than the last reaper I met."

_Shit. Keep it together, idiot._  The fact that Dean finds you attractive gets your human form all soaking wet, but you can't let yourself forget: it's time to do your goddamned job. Get down to business.

You try to stay composed, letting honest words fall from your mouth. "I was wondering when you'd figure it out."

It's wildly hot, the way he looks right now, as if he wants to rip your fucking throat out. No doubt he doesn't like the way that he got played. He says he should've known. He's still puzzled by the whole setup that you had going, though. The patient that he'd seen, the body of the spirit that you're imitating, dying from surgical complications... and beside her in the room, her grieving mom...

"It's my sandbox," you calmly respond. "I can make you see whatever I want."

Oh, he is  _pissed_. And some of his simmering anger is starting to rise to the surface. "What is this, like, a turn-on for you? Huh? Toying with me?"

_Abso-fucking-lutely. Everything about you is a turn-on, baby._ You stop yourself from saying that out loud, maintaining the soft, steady tone of your voice. "You didn't give me much choice."

Dean furrows his brows, the stitched wound on his forehead forming a deep crease. He doesn't quite know what you mean.

So you explain, reminding him how he'd reacted, upon your first meeting. "You saw my true form and you flipped out. Kinda hurts a girl's feelings."

He clenches his jaw, which is all manner of hot.

"This was the only way I could get you to talk to me," you tell him truthfully, though the whole truth remains hidden in your mind.  _And get you to fuck me._

"Okay, fine," Dean gruffly replies. "We're talkin'. What the hell do you wanna talk about?"

You rise from the bed as you answer, slowly moving towards him. "How death is nothing to fear."

The hatred in his gaze intensifies as you draw near. And that just stokes your inner fire, fuels the flame of your desire. You reach up to brush your hand against his cheek. "It's your time to go, Dean."

At those words, and at your uninvited touch, a shudder courses through his body—his plump lips part, lashes aflutter as he inhales sharply. Surely your hand upon his cheek feels dark and deathly, but... but the look on his face is also just a little bit...  _sexy_. You dare to dream that he senses it, too, this hot spark between you. You're probably just imagining it, though. You must be.  _Either way, that expression makes him look even more motherfucking pretty..._

In any event, trying to focus again on your task, you remind him of what he must know: that this isn't his first brush with death. Back in Nebraska, with that faith healer, he'd been spared from fatal illness thanks to some shady reaper business. So he has it coming, really. "And you're living on borrowed time already."

Dean knows it, but nonetheless, this kind of talk gets him real angry. Full of denial. Resentful and defensive. He goes through all the stages of refusing death, the process that you're so familiar with. Most of the people you reap act like this. The third stage of the process is bargaining; he thinks he can get you to make an exception for him. You're usually beyond exasperated by this stage. But with Dean? You could go on all day. It's just foreplay.

For what it's worth, he should know that—having spent his whole life in a fight against evil—at least he will die in a noble way. "It's an honorable death. A warrior's death."

Of course, he goes and makes an irreverent joke about what you just said. "I think I'll pass on the seventy-two virgins, thanks. I'm not that into prude chicks anyway."

_Well, I'm a virgin_ , you think _... but that doesn't mean I'm a prude._  Ever since setting eyes on Dean, you're nothing but a whore, through and through. "That's funny," you say in response to his wisecrack. And it's true; you would've laughed, if you'd been in the mood. "You're very cute."

Dean doesn't think any part of this whole scene is funny, or cute. He protests that he's not going with you. No matter what you do. You admit that you can't force him to. 

But then you tell him the big, ugly truth: that if he chooses to refuse... then he'll remain here in the veil forever, and there's only one thing he is bound to turn into. If he can't move on, then there's only one thing he'll become. A disembodied spirit, a ghost that will someday go mad, maybe even get violent. The same thing he hunts.

So you ask him—is that  _really_ what he wants...?

Dean falls silent. The look in his eyes gives the answer:  _of course the fuck not_. And now, just like that, he's no longer resisting. His fight against dying has stopped. Those words about how he'll turn into a vengeful spirit seem to have hit the spot; he is crippled with dread, at the thought.

Something is still holding him back, though. He has finally stopped saying no. But he's not ready yet to say yes. Just as your boss had known to expect.

_So now_... now it's time for you to push him over the edge.

 

***************

 

"Dean," you whisper into the darkness. Before diving into your task, you've given him a moment to process, to make some sense of all of this. But there isn't much time left. "Do you remember how it felt?"

He turns his pretty head to face you, where he's standing by the window, looking out into the shadows. He himself will be a shadow soon, if he decides to stay here in this realm. He knows.  _And he can't let that happen. No._ He knows he has to go...

With a heavy heart, Dean blinks and clears his throat. "How what felt?"

From where you're seated on the bed, you stand up and walk toward him, the slightest shadow of a smile upon your lips. You stop once you're close to him, closer than you've ever been to a human. Even when reaping souls, you have always preferred to stay at a safe distance.

But not with this one. No. In every way, this one is different.

Still smiling, you reach up to brush your hand against his cheek again, and whisper your reply in a soft sigh. "This."

_Oh God_ —the effect of the contact is even stronger, it seems, this time around. You can feel walls inside of his beautiful soul crashing down. The beauty of Dean, running so much deeper than the surface. _All the pain he bears, the pleasures that he's missed... the purity and power of his soul, his selfless sense of purpose... each of his unfulfilled passions, his unanswered prayers—his whole life just an unspoken, unbroken promise._  You can feel so much. Just from this touch. 

And on top of all the depths of Dean that you perceive, you also feel something a bit more... superficial. Something sensual and physical, but no less pure and powerful. A rush of blood, a racing pulse—a burst of insatiable lust.

He can clearly feel it, too, and  _damn_ —no pun intended, but... it's  _killing_ you.

And going on killing yourself with this feeling is all you can do.

"I know you feel it, Dean," you murmur, palm still pressed against his cheek. Breathless, you melt into his gaze, the most exquisite shade of green. "And that... is just the tip. There's so much more that death can give. Here, why don't I show you—here's a little... preview."

You move your hand slowly over his perfect face, upward, until it's resting on his forehead, tips of your fingers raking up into the soft spikes of his hair. And then you focus all your energy right there. Right fucking there. An energy meant to be shared. At first, he just stands still and stares—but then his pretty eyes fall shut, as soon as you begin to let the energy flow into him. He shuts them tight. And you let go. Filling Dean with the sensation of just how fulfilling death can truly be, letting the spark between the two of you ignite.

Wonderstruck, you watch in rapture as his head tilts back, tendons contracting in his neck, and as his jaw drops, luscious mouth opening wide, as if inviting you inside. His entire body, heart and soul, convulse and unfold, succumbing in sweet surrender to the sudden surge of pleasure. Sure, Dean may be nearly dead. Existing with you only as a spirit. But you don't doubt that what he just felt, in that moment, had to be the best and most intense orgasm of his life.

It goes without saying that you felt the same. That you just fucking came. Soaking wet in a cunt that you don't even have, in this fake human frame—which is pretty messed up—but hot damn, when this shit feels like  _that_ , you're not even ashamed.

"T-Tessa..." Dean gasps when your hand finally falls away, and you're coming all over again as he utters your name.

Watching as he trembles and blinks, green eyes lost in a daze when they open, you sigh and smile blissfully up at him. "Hmm?"

"What... what the..." he stutters, still desperately trying to recover. He reaches out to hold onto your shoulder, for balance or something, which he soon realizes was really quite dumb. The spark between your soul and his flares  _again_  upon contact, bare skin against skin. 

But he can't bring himself to pull away. The spark is what he craves; his other hand lifts up to grab your other shoulder, then to curl around your neck and fucking pull you closer. But he stops short of leaning in to claim a kiss, or press his chest against your breasts. Neither of you could handle that, just yet. He knows better.

Both of you need to take a breather, before going any further. So you just reach up to touch his cheek again in a gentle caress, and pause to flirt. Because, well—a little flirting never hurt. "Let me ask you something, Dean... do you know French?"

His lashes flutter in a stupidly precious blink. "Huh? You mean like French kissing?"

You bite back a silent laugh and shake your head. "Oh, I'm sure you know all about that. But what I meant is... well, there's this lovely phrase they have, in the French language:  _la petite mort_ ," you tell him, lingering on the growly 'r' and silent 't' in 'mort'. You've heard it many times before. It's your favorite phrase in any language on earth. "Do you know what that is, gorgeous?"

Dean blinks again. "Uhh... little something? Little—more...?"

_Ugh God, that's so fucking adorable. This man was made to be adored_. "Close," you purr, lifting your other hand to clutch the firm curve of his shoulder. "That's how 'mort' is pronounced, yes. But in French, the word means 'death', you know."

His brows furrow. "Oh. So... so it means  _the little death_? I dunno, Tessa—when I die, like with everything, I... well, I was kinda hoping to go big."

"Trust me, Dean—you will," you reassure him with a dirty smile. "Don't be so literal.  _La petite mort_ describes the high that people get from epic sex. The feeling that comes with a mind-blowing orgasm. Apparently, according to the French, it feels... well, like a little death."

He pauses, as if to reflect. On a few of his own greatest hits. Nods and puckers his lips. "Yeah, I get that. I guess."

Your hand upon his cheek drifts down a bit, fingers framing his chin, pulling his face ever so slightly closer as you lean in. "Yeah. They call it that for a reason. With you and me, Dean—death can be... an eternity of that exact,  _perfect_  feeling. Pure pleasure and bliss. Boundless. Endless."

_Or at least that's what Death had promised._  More and more, you're starting to get the sense that it was total bullshit. Your boss is a morbid, manipulative son of a bitch. He would pull any strings to get you to do your duty, to do  _this_. Would probably get off on how twisted it is.

But, well... if there's any chance in hell that what he said was true, even if just a sliver... then that's more than enough for you.

Dean's breathing hitches. "I—ugh,  _shit_..." he curses as you press forward, arching upward just a bit so that his chest crushes your tits.

"Dean. You can't just let yourself become a vengeful spirit. You must know... you  _have_  to do this," you remind him, thumb tenderly tracing his full, trembling lower lip. "I'm just sweetening the pot. A little. Or... a lot..."

You grind your hips into him then, rubbing your crotch against his bulging cock. The choked sound that slips out of his throat now is  _so fucking hot_...

Pressing your mouth into his ear, you tease him with a whisper. "D'you want me to stop?"

"No," he responds on the instant, dick twitching with need where it touches your soaking wet cunt through your jeans. "I—oh  _God_..."

"Go on, then. Just give in," you beg, fingers wandering down his neck, tracing and worshiping every sweet inch of his sweat-beaded skin. " _Please_ , Dean. Let me take you to fucking heaven..."

Your other hand, meanwhile, has wandered down toward his fine ass, massaging the firm, rounded muscle of one of his cheeks through his pants.  _Honestly, what kind of drug was God on when he crafted this man?_  There are no words for such utter perfection. You're certain that Dean is a dom, that he doesn't like it very much when a bitch gets too rough—so you try to fight the strong urge that you're getting to slap this delectable rump, but don't know if you can. _Maybe... maybe just one little smack. Surely he won't mind that...?_

So you do it. You couldn't resist. And as it turns out... it was  _so_  goddamn worth it. Because, at the sharp little slap of your stupid hand, something in Dean fucking  _snaps_.

You had begged for the privilege of taking him to heaven. He answers you now. "Oh, you ain't gonna take a damn thing," he growls, slamming your body against the wall, all of a sudden. "Not from me, bitch. That's  _not_  how this is gonna happen."

He rips your shirt off in one swift, violent motion. One of his big, strong hands attacks your breasts, the other gripping tight around your gasping neck. Stars float across your vision, flashing in euphoria from everything he's doing.  _Holy fuck..._

"Because  _I_  take... what _I_  want," he furiously grunts. "You got that? You dumb fucking cunt?"

_Oh God._  Dean Winchester gives new dimension to the whole damn concept of dominant...

"So you can take your  _little death_ and shove it up your ass," he snarls, ripping open your pants, then hauling you across the room to throw you down onto the bed, "...'cause like I said—I go  _big_. And hard... and fast... and bitch, you know you fucking dig it. Just like that."

He has stripped all of the clothes completely off, both yours and his, before you even know it. And the whole damn world stops turning as you lay eyes on his dick. Because it's seriously, literally  _perfect_.

"See something you want?" he taunts, leaning down over your bare naked body and dealing your face a rough slap. "Dirty slut."

" _Dean..._!" you gasp, uncontrollably.

That earns you a thick wad of spit on your forehead, another one aiming straight onto your tongue, and a firm choking grip on your neck. "Don't you dare say my name, whore. That ain't what this filthy mouth is for."

"I—" you squeal, dying from how ridiculously good his torture feels. "I'm sorry, sir..."

"Mmm. Want me to shut you the fuck up?" Dean says, straddling your chest, shifting till his crotch is hovering inches away from your face, wrapping his fist around his massive length. "Would you like that, slut?"

" _Yes_ , sir!" you scream, mouth falling shamelessly open, hungry for the object of your every dream.

"Yeah? Then give me that gaping throat. Open that jaw till it breaks," he commands, burning you with the heat of his words and his gorgeous green gaze. "Told you, bitch—what I want I fucking  _take_. Gonna destroy this pretty little face."

And that's exactly what he does. Keeping up the filthy dirty talk all the while, calling you a reaper whore, Death's little slut, just like he knows you love. It was your job to take Dean to heaven, but no— _he_ 's the one taking  _you_  that way. You're so much more than just a reaper now, yet so much less: you're nothing but Dean Winchester's fucktoy, his desperate, devoted sex slave. It's everything you never even knew you craved, until today. You could never get over how good his enormous cock feels as it hammers your face, how amazing it tastes, the way his thick hot come fills your throat as you swallow it down, not about to let even one drop go to waste. 

And when he's finished, with that, well... he still isn't even close to being finished. Dean's sexual prowess and drive have no fucking limits, and that's even more true in the form that he's in, here with you, as a spirit. As he watches you struggle to guzzle down all of his come, he drenches your face in a stream of his hot golden piss, makes you beg for the privilege of drinking it. Lets you lick a few lingering drops from the tip, while he vigorously fucks your tits. Then your dripping wet cunt, which feels like it was made to take his dick—you honestly don't doubt it. Then your tight little ass, which feels like it's tearing in half, the way he ravages your hole so rough and fast. And of course, the whole damn time, he keeps on blessing your pathetic piss-soaked face with gobs of his delicious spit, slapping you silly, calling you a worthless piece of shit. 

Once Dean is done filling your holes up with his come, he's  _still_ not done. He lets you kiss his pretty feet, all hot and sweaty, smothering your face beneath, smirking as he watches you desperately worship them, taking your time to suck each perfect toe, one at a time, all in a row, and then devouring five at once. As a reward for all your service, then, you even get to clean his luscious ass out with your filthy fucking mouth. You've died and gone to heaven, like, a thousand times by now.

His final load of come is for your tongue, goes down your throat where it belongs. You don't doubt that the both of you could have kept going on. That was the kind of thing Death promised you, after all: an eternity of  _this_. Dean and you, your two spirits, entwined in a state of perpetual sexual bliss. It's the only way you ever want to exist.

As all these thoughts float across your come-drunk head, Dean's godlike body slumps over yours on the bed, and he suddenly leans in to give you a long, sloppy kiss. It was the last thing you'd expected, right in this moment, but  _good God_  that feels good. Far better than you thought a kiss ever could.  _Holy shit._

"What the...  _wow_ ," you sigh once his pillowy lips pull away from your mouth, his tongue swollen and wet when it slips out.

"Don't mention it," he snickers with a cocky little wink. "Just wanted to prove I know how to French kiss."

_Ugh. He's so fucking cute and he knows it._ You lick your lips, relishing the taste of his juices all over them. "Oh. Well, um... yeah. You sure did."

He chuckles and drops a soft kiss on your forehead. "Yeah. You know—I like you, Tessa. More than I should."

You blink speechlessly up at Dean. Those words get you all giddy, but...  _what does he even mean?_

"Being with you, like this, just feels... really damn good," he goes on. "I guess part of me does want to die. Maybe some part of me has been ready for that for a really long time. Hell, some days I feel like I'm already dead inside. I know I have to go with you. And honestly, I would. But..."

If you weren't still high from the sex, still in a haze and seeing stars, you would've felt more sharply and more deeply just how much these words from Dean cut in, breaking your heart. The heart that you don't have, given just who—just  _what_ —you are. You haven't known Dean long, but you already feel as if you know him well, given the spark between your souls, a fire burning pure and strong. And you care about him. A lot. Might even say you love him, if it were possible at all for a reaper to love a man. It's not. But still, you do love him, as much as you can.

Dean had said he would go with you. He means it; you can tell. And yet... something is still giving him pause, holding him back. 

He had said that he would.  _But_... You finish the sentence for him. "...but you can't."

His evergreen gaze had been distant, for a fleeting second. He comes back to the present, once he hears you say that. "Yeah, I can't," he repeats. "It's like... even when all I wanna do is just lay my damn head down and die, I... something just doesn't feel right. I don't know what it is. I mean, hell, I've got plenty of reasons to live, but—but sometimes I don't even know how much more I can give."

On instinct, you reach up to stroke his cheek again. "You shouldn't have to give anything. I've seen into your soul, Dean. Seen how much you've already given.  _Everything_ , and then some. You deserve rest; you deserve heaven. Whatever work you think you have to do, on earth, I'm sure it's more than done. Besides—I, uh..." you bite your lip and pause, "thought you're not much into giving. Thought you said you just take what you want."

Dean smiles, a bit, at that. Even lets out a breathy little laugh. "Well, that's just when it comes to kinky fucking cunts..."

The two of you go on for some time, like this. Alternating between flirtatious and dead serious. Pausing between conversations about death to kiss, and even to have sex—passionate, gentle sex, which is just as epic as all the filthy dirty things you'd done with him, and yet so deeply different. Every mind-blowing minute that you spend with Dean just convinces you more of how perfect he is. He deserves to have peace. To ascend to heaven, to be blessed with an eternity of bliss. More than anyone else, Dean Winchester has earned it. But he also deserves to exist. To carry on—to live, and to give, if that's still what he wants.

You just want what  _he_  wants. You're here to give that to him. Whatever that is. Yet you both know that you cannot put his soul back in his body; that if he refuses to follow you on to his death, then his wandering spirit will be all that's left. Coming back to life isn't an option. If he remains, he'd just be clinging to some pointless hope that somehow, someday, he would get back in his skin. That he would find a way. 

That isn't how shit works, though. You both know. There is only one choice for him to make, but you don't have the heart to say...

Anyway—as it turns out, what Dean decides tonight won't even matter. The choice will be made for him, soon enough, before the night is over. By the power of a deal, made with a demon. By his father.

But till then, you'll just stay beside him on this bed, longing for nothing but to take away his pain, caressing and comforting him in every way you can... because yes—it  _is_  possible for a reaper to love a man. Inevitable, even, when it comes to a man who is hotter than hell and shines brighter than heaven.  _When he's much more than just a man, more than anyone or anything you've ever seen..._ Any damn thing is possible, when it comes to Dean.

Whatever happens next, you just hope he'll always remember how it felt. When you had touched. When the two of you had given, taken, felt so fucking much. When you had shared with Dean, in a big way... a little death.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for embarking on the second season of this journey :D 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! Always grateful for kudos and comments, if you did <3
> 
> *Note: I know that the comments on the last chapter got a little... interesting, as you may have seen. As of now, my plan has just been to completely ignore that person. I know there are other potential solutions, but I gave it some thought and feel like there are drawbacks to each one. That said, I really am very sorry for whatever distress (and disgust) those comments may have caused to my dear readers... I've been hoping that the behavior would stop, but if it continues on this chapter, I most likely will take some action.*


	24. (S02E02) I've Got Fifty-One Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 2 ("Everybody Loves a Clown")*
> 
> *In which you are Jo Harvelle*
> 
> Love and hate. Push and pull. Dean Winchester's got fifty-one hours to kill. 
> 
> You wish he would spend them all fucking you. In the dirtiest, most degrading ways possible. 
> 
> ... Maybe he will. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii Deanbitches!! I'm really sorry that this update took a while... life outside of AO3 has been keeping me busier lately, but I'm still writing Deanfics as often as I possibly can, believe me :)
> 
> I think this chapter is the longest yet; the Dean/Jo pairing gives me lots of inspiration... I've been generally hoping to keep chapters shorter in this fic (so that I can post them more often), but oh well, here's what happened with this one :P Hope you guys enjoy it!

 

***Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 2 ("Everybody Loves a Clown")***

***In which you are Jo Harvelle***

 

 

From the moment he walks in, the very instant you lay eyes on him... your life is fucking ruined.

 _That's_  how good he looks. And smells, and sounds, and feels, and tastes, no doubt. Just from one glance at his fine ass and his flawless face, it's all that you can think about. Falling at his feet, making vows of undying love, which of course would be muffled by his massive meat as you take his delicious length deep in your mouth...

 _Shit. Mom is really gonna hate this guy_ , you think. Ellen Harvelle has no patience for the womanizing scumbags who come driving by this roadhouse. So many of them seem to think that they can swing by, grab a beer, and bang the pretty young bartender while they're here. As if your mom's some kind of pimp, whoring out her daughter as a cockslut for the hunters who come in. Their cheap and dirty little plaything.

You hate the way those scumbags look at you. Your mother hates it even more than you do. And she's gonna hate this gorgeous green-eyed bastard more than any guy who's ever tried to screw her precious Jo. Because she's gonna know—without you even saying anything, from just the way you're staring, stunned and stupid in this stranger's presence, so completely smitten—that he's bound to be the first one who succeeds. Because, for him, a cheap and dirty little plaything... is  _exactly_  what you want to be.

So you can't let her see. Can't let anyone see the effect that he has on your heart and your body. Not your mother, not him, sure as hell not yourself. You'll have to hide it—have to play tough, in the face of what already feels like love. 

 _Ugh, shut up, Jo_ , you inwardly grumble.  _That's ridiculous. It's just lust. A big, dumb, fucking crush_. That's what you have to say to yourself, to stay cool, to keep calm and collected and comfortable. Playing tough is something you've always done well. Whereas the whole love thing... or massive crush thing, or whatever this is... not so much.

There's no better way to play all rough and tough than with a shotgun. You happen to know how to handle one. Armed with your weapon, lurking in a dim-lit corner ever since the man and his tall friend walked in, you watch in silence, tracking all their movements. Trying not to get distracted, but unable to resist the urge to check out all his assets, while you're at it.  _How can you not imagine what he's packing in those pants? Every muscle of the sturdy body underneath that sexy leather jacket...?_

Meanwhile the Adonis's friend, upon seeing your buddy Ash sprawled out asleep on the pool table, guesses out loud that the dude with the mullet is probably not Ellen.  _So these guys know your mom? Or at least know her name_. You're suspicious of them all the same. Mom is in the back room—when the tall stranger heads off in that direction, that's your cue. To come out of the shadows where you have been hiding from view. To finally come face to face with perfection.

You approach from behind, slow and quiet. The closer you get, soaking wet as you catch a faint whiff of his whiskey-rich scent, the more it feels like you might die from a big lady boner.  _Death by female erection. When you haven't even touched him yet. That wouldn't be embarrassing or anything._

Then as the barrel of your gun presses into his spine, he speaks—the smooth tone of his husky voice driving you wild—and cracks a joke about the solid mass that's poking at his back. That's right: a boner joke. It's like he fucking reads your mind. "Oh God, please let that be a rifle."

 _Ugh_ —so he's not only breathtakingly beautiful, sexy as hell, but also incredibly funny and cute?  _You are so fucking screwed..._

To hide that thought, you cock your gun, because it's the tough-cookie thing to do. But the cocking sound just makes you think of...  _of how bad you need his cock to rip you apart_... You'll have to hide that thought, too. And the fast, passionate pounding of your heart. "Nah, I'm just real happy to see you," you say, playing into the joke, though the statement is all too true. "Don't move."

"Not moving, copy that," he rasps, pausing for a second, while you struggle in his presence not to suddenly collapse from an orgasmic heart attack. He's killing you softly with every damn word off his lips. "You know—you should know something, Miss. When you put a rifle on someone... you don't wanna put it right against their back."

You blink.  _Where's he going with this?_ Typically, in this kind of situation, the badass in you would be able to tell, and would already be a step ahead of him. But this whole schoolgirl crush thing has got you all stupid. You've got it bad, and that's a fact.

 _Judging from his confidence, he probably fucking knows it_ , you think as he goes on to finish his sentence. "...'cause it makes it  _real_ easy to do..." he swivels swiftly, yanking the rifle from your grasp. And goddamn—as you'd known to expect, his beauty is even more striking, up close like this, right here in front of you. Especially when he purses his lips and cocks the gun in a fiercely aggressive motion, bullets falling to the floor, clattering loudly on impact. "...that."

Oh, this motherfucker is way, way too hot.  _God, you need to kiss him. Fuck him. Right fucking now_. But you can't. And that pisses you off. You hate this perfect face that you can't dare to let yourself love. Hate it so much. Which is good, you think, because hate makes it easier now to play tough. To the words that he'd said, to the move that he'd pulled... there is only one way for the badass in you to react.

Part of playing tough is knowing how to pack a mean punch. It's the part you're the best at.

He doubles over in pain once you've done just that. Caught him off guard, with your fist smashing right into his pretty face, good and hard. "Sam!" he calls out to his friend as you reclaim your gun. "Need some help in here..."

And so do you; the truth hits you then with a sharp jolt of heart-stopping fear. You weren't prepared for just how shitty punching him would feel. For you as well as him, the pain is real. Watching him bring the heel of his palm to his nose, green eyes closed, mumbling that he can't even see... noticing the deep scar that traverses his forehead, from some prior injury... realizing how you've hurt him, when there are wounds that he's already endured—and when pain is the last thing that someone so perfect could ever deserve... well, it's all you can do not to burst into tears.  _What the actual hell? Calm your tits and compose yourself. Get a grip, Jo._

But you won't, you know. You cannot ever hope to get a grip, because you lost your grip on everything, the moment you first met him. The sight of this literal stranger in pain is breaking your pathetic little heart to pieces. Pounding it to dust. 

That's when you know—no longer able to deny, no matter how bad you might try... that this is  _so_ much more than just a crush.

 

***************

 

His name is Dean. Dean Fucking Winchester. You don't know if he has a real middle name, but whatever it is, you're sure that  _Fucking_  suits him much better. The shaggy-haired tower named Sam is his brother, and their dad—who they say passed away recently—knew your mother. Ellen tells them that their father was once like family to her. You're just glad that there's no blood relation, because if there had been, then you would be fantasizing every day for the rest of your life about hot kinky sex with your cousin. Incest isn't really your thing. But it would be if you were related to him. Which is just more proof that your dignity, your sanity, your whole sense of humanity, have been completely ruined.

As it turns out, your mom doesn't actually seem to hate him. Not even just a little bit. At least not yet.  _Maybe that's to your credit, for doing a good job of hiding the fact that you desperately want him to fuck you to pieces and treat you like shit._  Mom would kill him if she knew it. All the more reason to keep your crush a secret. You're still gonna call it a crush, for as long as you can, in your head. Though you know that it's much more than that.

The Winchesters explain that they came because Ellen was trying to contact their dad. Offering to help with a demon that John had been trying to track. Later on, as the two brothers talk about business with Ash, you casually strut past, giving Dean a clear rear view of your skintight jeans—hoping that maybe, just maybe, he's tempted to check out your ass.

 _...and maybe, just maybe, he was._ Because, as you walk over toward a table by the window, it's not long before he follows. He must've seen something he liked, and the thought gives you all kinds of butterflies. It's mind-blowing to think he might like you, want you, to even just imagine that he does. Even if only a little bit. Even though you could never be worth it.

Having shed his leather jacket, now Dean's just wearing blue jeans and a light brown henley, forearms bare and biceps bulging beautifully beneath his rolled up sleeves, and he looks so damn sexy like this that he might as well be naked.  _Well... scratch that_ , you think— _if he were, you'd be dead_.

Thankfully you're not, just yet. Both of your dads are, though; you and Dean talk about that for a bit. It's not a flirty subject, but even innocent condolences sound sexy coming off those luscious lips. Somehow you manage to keep your voice steady and cool, to hold in all your drool.  _Does he know just how hard that is for you? Does he have any fucking clue?_  He should; it's not as if he's blind. The guy can probably read your mind and sense how wet you've been for him this whole damn time, your panties soaking through and through. You've had enough foreplay by now, and you hope he has, too. It's time for the sex god to cut the small talk and whip out his big cock.

Sure enough, Dean starts hitting on you, right on cue. "So—um..." he scratches the back of his head and looks off to the side for a second, pointing a finger in Ash's direction. Dean then refers to the amount of time your mullet-rocking friend had estimated, for the task that he's been given. "I guess I've got fifty-one hours to waste."

 _Fuck yes. Waste them all over my face_. You bite your tongue, to hold in what the dirty slut inside you wants to say. You're in heaven just picturing being his fucktoy, his personal sex slave, nonstop for more than two days straight. No doubt a stallion like Dean has got the stamina to pull it off. And you will, too, fueled by the power of your love. Fifty-one hours is a hell of a lot, but no amount of time could ever be enough.

Dean goes on. "Maybe tonight we should, uh..."

 _Oh God_ —his eyes are averted from yours, for the moment— _but this wicked quick pause that he takes, before raising his glorious emerald gaze up to your face_... it makes it that much hotter,  _painfully_ hot, when your eyes and his finally lock. Your pussy's leaking like a flood that can't be stopped. You have to grit your teeth and clench your jaw, to keep your tongue from leaping right out of your mouth and wrapping tight around his cock. You can only imagine how good he tastes, how amazing it would feel to have Dean Winchester hammering his huge dick down your throat and exploding all over your face.  _Motherfucking divine..._  what's more, you're getting off on the fact that he has to be thinking the same smutty thoughts.  _He just has to be. Right?_

But then something shifts; the next words out of his perfect mouth are the last thing that you were prepared to expect. "Nah, you know what—never mind."

 _Well, fuck_. That hits you right in the gut. "What?"

Dean averts his gaze again. "Nothing, just..." he replies, nose adorably crinkling up. He blinks, brushing off whatever he's got going on in that brooding, mysterious mind, and looks back up at you with those stupidly stunning green eyes, "...wrong place, wrong time."

 _Damn. There is really no end to the ways that this bastard is going to ruin your life._  But you know how to brush shit off, too; you know how to play cool. So you do. "You know, I thought you were gonna toss me some cheap pickup line," you tell him, which isn't a lie. "Most hunters come through that door, think they can get in my pants with some... pizza, a six pack, and side one of Zeppelin IV."

Dean clearly knows just what you mean. "Well, what a bunch of scumbags."

Your mouth curls into something caught between a smile and a frown. Playing his way into your pants is exactly what you'd hoped that he would do. But instead here he is, making the moves on you for a hot minute, just to turn around the next second and slam you with sudden rejection, breaking your heart and bringing your sense of self-worth crashing down. This is the only man you'll ever  _want_  to be a scumbag, the only man you would let use and abuse you like that... and he doesn't even want to. "Not you."

His glowing gaze still lingers on your face, piercing and powerful enough to get you pregnant just from eye contact.  _Ugh, how sick is it that you would like that?_  It looks as if he might be holding something back; you're not sure what. Neither is he, apparently—he's probably lost track of all of the shit that he's buried. Dean walks and talks like a guy who holds back a whole lot. It's part of what makes him so wildly hot. "I guess not."

Sam calls him over just then. Which is good timing, given that you're not sure how much more you could've taken of this raging, pathetically one-sided sexual tension. It hurts just to be in the presence of such pure perfection. Really fucking hurts.

And you're so screwed, because you realize in this instant, as he stands up and heads over toward his brother, that in his absence...the pain is even more intense. That watching Dean Winchester walk away from you—a sight that you already know you will have to get used to—hurts  _way_  fucking worse.

 

***************

 

The Winchesters spend the next couple of days in a town nearby handling some creepy clown case. When they finally return to the roadhouse and Dean struts his fine ass back in, more than fifty-one hours after you'd first met him... you can only imagine how giddy you look with this love-drunk grin spreading across your dumb face. And this time, you're not even able to wipe it away. You had tried to play tough, at first. But spending time away from him had really sucked, and  _hurt_ , like hell—so now that he's returned, you just can't help yourself. 

No more instincts toward emotional self-defense; no more delusions of dignity, or pride, or whatever. You're embracing the role of the googly-eyed, boy-crazy schoolgirl. Dean may have turned you down, just a few days earlier. But that blatant rejection is not gonna stop you from shamelessly crawling right back to him, begging for one precious second of his attention, even when you're not worthy of his attraction or affection. At least not for the moment. Sooner or later, you'll get back to acting like some kind of tough girl again. Right now, though, you don't have the strength or desire to try to pretend.

After coming up beside Dean at the bar, and then shooting his brother the look—the look of  _'bitch please don't just keep sitting there like a big awkward cockblock'_ —you watch as the younger Winchester clumsily shoves off, leaving you and your life-ruiner all alone.

"So..." you say once Sam's gone, softly clearing your throat.

"So," Dean echoes.

 _So he's gonna make you fill in all the blanks._ Fine—you'll cut straight to the chase. At this point, there's no use playing games. "Am I gonna see you again?"

He pauses for a second, looking across the bar, then back at you. "Do you want to?" he asks you, as if that is even a question.

The non-question was so goddamned stupid that you can't resist getting cute now as you respond to it. You pretend to give it some thought, playfully tilting your head. "I wouldn't hate it."

"Mmm," he purses his pillowy lips and looks down at the beer in his hands. "Can I be honest with you?"

 _Of course you can_ , you silently think _. As if you need my permission for anything. I'm your dirty little plaything; you're my motherfucking king. You can be and do any damn thing you want to._

"See, normally," he continues, "I'd be hitting on you so fast it'd make your head spin."

The unspoken slutty voice inside your head is freakishly excited, hearing that. And she isn't done yet. You keep her quiet, but you know how she would've responded to what Dean just said:  _You don't need to hit_ on  _me to make my head spin, though. You can just straight up hit me, you know—I mean, if you'd like to. If hitting me would be a turn-on for you. Would it, sir? Pretty please? Honestly, it would be a huge turn-on for me..._

Dean can probably fucking hear your inner whore from where he's sitting, yet he carries on as if he can't, because he's smooth like that. "But, uh—these days..." he stares at his beer again, as if he's drowning himself in the thing, drinking all of it in with his dark, downcast gaze. "...I dunno."

 _Well, there ya go_. You swallow down the ego blow. Dean has slammed you again with a cold, hard rejection _._  At least now you can't say that you didn't try—and hey, he did say that he might've fucked you on some other day.  _So that's a win._

But not today. You wish you knew why, but what you wish doesn't really matter. All that matters to you now is him. Till the day you die.  _Dean Fucking Winchester._

You find yourself slipping back into the role of the super cool, emotionally invulnerable, tough girl once more, brushing off Dean's rejection as if it was just because he is afraid of your mother. Pretending that Mom is the reason is easier. After all, Ellen Harvelle is an intimidating character. Gesturing over toward her, where she's standing nearby at the bar, you reiterate Dean's words from earlier. "Wrong place... wrong time?"

"Yeah," he replies with a halfhearted smile.

You can't even begin to understand what's going on inside his pretty head. But it's quite frankly none of your business. Dean has made his decision, and even if it breaks your heart to pieces, rips it into shreds... it is one that you'll have to respect. You put on a brave face and accept it. "It's okay. I get it."

You don't. Dean probably knows it. And he probably couldn't give less of a shit.

Ash emerges from his den just then. He and the Winchesters discuss clowns and demon things, while you watch and listen, mostly just undressing Dean with your eyes, for what you realize might have to be the final time. A few minutes later, the brothers are set to head out of the roadhouse. But then, for reasons that you can't begin to fathom, Mom offers them a place to stay, if they need it; there are a couple of spare beds in the backroom.

Once the offer has been made, you hold your breath—stupid enough to dream that maybe...  _maybe_... Dean will take her up on it...

"Thanks, but no," he says, dashing your dreams to ashes all over again. "There's something I gotta finish."

You don't know what it is. But you do know one thing that sure as hell  _is_ finished, the moment Dean Winchester exits: your whole damn existence. 

 

***************

 

Sam looks out the car window and furrows his brows. "What the hell?"

They've barely been out on the road for five minutes, since leaving the Harvelles, and now Dean's swerving into some random motel. Not bothering to give his brother any explanation for what's happening.

"Um—Dean..." Sam says, looking up at the driver expectantly.

"I'm gonna need a room. For a couple of nights," Dean replies. "You can, uh—get your own room, if you'd like. Or head back to Bobby's place, if you can catch a ride."

The younger Winchester blinks his perplexed puppy eyes. "You mean hitchhike?"

His big brother shrugs. "Sure. Not like it's your first time."

Sam heaves a sigh. By now, he's figured out what this is all about, and he doesn't like it. Not one bit. Sometimes Dean's sex addict habits are too much for him to take. "Yeah, just like it's not your first time making a spontaneous change of plans so you can bang some random skank."

The driver grumbles as he pulls into the parking lot. "She's not."

 _What?_  That response was... odd. It gives Sam pause. It feels unnatural to hear Dean defending a girl's honor. "They always are."

At that, Dean's tone turns suddenly dark. "Get out of the car."

His brother pauses again, mouth open. Sure, Dean has been on edge lately, ever since they lost Dad, and Sam has tried talking to him about that. Pretty often. It never ends well. But this—this just seems sort of... different. "What the  _hell_ , Dean?"

"You think you know her? Think you know me?" Dean rasps, glaring at his brother as he shuts the engine off. "God, you just—think you know  _so_  fucking much—but guess what. You don't know  _shit_ , Sammy."

Sam pauses again. Processes the fire in his brother's eyes, the rush of blood that burns beneath his skin. And that's when it hits him. "...oh. I get it."

And, of course, that infuriates Dean even more. "No, you  _really_  don't—"

"You're into her."

Sam knows he's right when Dean doesn't even bother trying to answer. When Dean doesn't repeat his command for his know-it-all brother to get the fuck out of the car. Instead, he just steps out himself, slams the door behind him, loud and hard, pissed as hell, and storms off down the road.

It isn't just about the girl. About whatever feelings he may or may not have for her. For you. The shit going on in Dean's head—a shitstorm of denial and disbelief, rage and grief, guilt and regret and above all self-hatred, is more... complicated. In his heart, and his soul, even more so.

But some part of it is about you. Although Dean may never admit it, to himself, to you or to anyone else... still, it's true. 

Sammy knows.

 

***************

 

"Hey, Jo."

You blink.  _What is this—are you already dead and in heaven? Either that, or this is some insane hormone-driven hallucination._

Dean Fucking Winchester has just walked back into the roadhouse. He's standing there by the front entrance, as if his presence in here makes any sense. "Can we, uh... talk?"

 _The fuck? Um... sure, but I'd rather just worship your cock._ You stop yourself from saying that, glad that your mom and Ash are dealing with some random crap out back. That you're the only one in the room here with Dean. Whether this vision of him is real or not. You had been set for your life to lose all sense of meaning, when he had walked out of the roadhouse, so recently— _and now..._ Naturally, idiotic words fall from your mouth. "You're back?"

He doesn't have to answer that. Not with words, at least. The borderline shy smile on his perfect lips is real, as real as the love that it's making you feel, enough to prove that you're not seeing things. That he is here. It's all the proof you need.

You end up stepping out and going for a walk, the two of you, just strolling down the side of the road, nice and slow. Talking about nothing and everything. Yourselves, each other... his brother, your mother, a few other hunters... rock music, classic cars, hardcore porn—yeah, you're both into that—burgers and beer and your favorite flavors of pie. All of the things you like, care about, can't live without. You have so much more in common than you would've dared to think. 

Yet still, at heart, you feel so...  _different_. For one thing, you're leagues beneath him. Infinitely inferior, which is no insult to yourself, given that it's true of everyone. No body or soul could ever come anywhere near his perfection. And somehow, no matter how close it seems like you might get, there's some strange sense of distance. Some weird push and pull thing, like he'll never see you the way you see him. Which makes sense—he shouldn't. You're head over heels for Dean Winchester. Whereas what he feels... well, if you had to guess, he most likely just thinks that you're cute and pretty, fun and sweet, but that it's wrong to see you as sexy when some part of him sees you more like a little sister.

You shouldn't overthink it, though, you know. You're surprised that you're able to think straight at all, as you walk with him down this old road, together all alone. There's a motel up ahead, you notice, and you're heading towards it—your heart skips a beat or two, as you approach. _It's close... so close..._

And then Dean stops and bites his lip. The bitten flesh is pale when he releases it. As it flushes back to pink, he flashes you a shadow of a smile, cold and hollow, turns around and says he's gonna walk you home. He knows you'll follow.

But you don't.  _Because this... this is just too much._ Now he's about to see another side of Jo. The side that will not let him get away with being such a jackass.

"You  _really_ gonna pull this crap again, Dean?" you ask, crossing your arms over your chest.

He stops in his tracks, swiveling to face you where you stand. His green eyes have gone wide, like a squirrel caught in headlights, the sexiest squirrel in the world. "...crap?"

"Yeah," you snap, wishing he didn't look so damn cute like that. "You know, getting me all worked up just to throw me away like I'm yesterday's trash."

Dean winces as if you had just punched him hard in the face again. As if those words dealt a real blow.

"Just make up your fucking mind about me, Dean," you impatiently demand. "I can handle the truth even if you can't. What do you see me as? A little sister, or a piece of ass?"

"Oh, come on, Jo..." he groans.

"Both? Neither?"

He rolls his eyes, muttering as he looks off to the side. "Yeah, sure."

 _Ugh, what a rude little bastard._ "That's not an answer."

"Well, it's the only one I've got," he barks, wide eyes raging and dark, taking one big step closer to you down the road. "You want the truth or not? What do you  _want_ , Jo?"

 _...Um. Your cock. Especially now, because as it turns out, you are even more savagely hot when you're super pissed off._ You swallow, to keep that response in your throat.

"The truth is I don't know," Dean continues, the force of his gorgeous glare piercing straight through you. "I don't know shit. You got that? I  _don't. Fucking. Know_."

Brief silence follows, broken by a lone car kicking dust up on the road. You look at the late afternoon sky to see a pale moon on the rise, then back into his dark eyes, at war with your own. "Well, I don't believe you," you tell him. "I think you know the truth. You just don't want to. Would rather run and hide behind your lies, 'cause you're too terrified to let anyone in."

Dean averts his gaze, rolling his eyes again. "Great, so now you're my shrink?"

 _Yeah, you are, for a minute._  So you keep at it. "You think you're so tough, but deep down you've just never felt strong enough. Good enough. And  _that_ , that self-hatred—that's why you won't even let... let yourself..."

"Let myself what?"

"...love," you say without pause. "Or be loved."

He doesn't pause either. "And what the hell makes you say that, huh?"

 _Ugh. Such an idiot._ Your voice right now is desperate, running low on pride and patience; you're not sure how much more you can take of this."Isn't it obvious?"

Now he pauses. And it feels like fifty-one hours have passed before he finally breaks it. "You mean..."

You don't want to hear him say another word. _It would just... hurt._  "As if you have to ask, Dean."

He bites his lip, hard. Shakes his head. "No. Come  _on_ , Jo. You just fucking met me. You don't even know—"

"I know enough."

"To be in  _love_?"

Your shoulders lift up in a weak shrug. "Call it what you want, if that makes you feel better. Maybe just a massive crush. Or whatever. All I know is it's the strongest thing I've felt. Ever."

He shuts his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing in slow and deep.

Words keep falling forth from your lips, full of passion and need, as you take a step closer to him on instinct, reaching up to gently stroke his cheek. "And I just—I wish you would just let me  _feel_  it, Dean. And let yourself receive it. Please..."

"I..." his voice trails off softly. "I can't, Jo. I'm sorry."

Dean won't meet your gaze in this moment. Which is probably for the best, because you're sure you look a mess. You bite your lip and drop your hand away from him, shaking your head, looking up lovingly at his low-lidded eyes. " _God_ , it's like... it's like God put you on this damn earth just to ruin bitches' lives."

His lips part, so you can glimpse the slick pink tongue that sparkles visibly behind his teeth. The most delicious fucking thing you've ever seen. "What's that supposed to mean?"

 _It means that from the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew that I would die for you._ "Don't act like you don't know."

"Jo..."

"You  _really_  don't get it, you beautiful idiot?"

He blinks. Of course he doesn't.

You wish that you could make him understand. But you can't; he never will, because he'll never see himself like that, you know. "You would, if you didn't hate yourself too much to just look in a mirror," you say, with one last longing gaze at his heartbreakingly perfect face. He looks a bit puzzled by that, which is just the most precious thing ever. "It's a compliment, Dean Fucking Winchester. Just take it and go."

You nod toward the motel as you yourself turn and head off in the other direction, back down the long road.

Without looking back over your shoulder, you throw him a few final words, just in case some sick big-brother impulse might tempt him to follow. "And you're not my babysitter, so don't go insisting on walking me home."

"Okay. If you say so," you hear him murmur as he watches you go. "I'll, uh... see you around, Jo."

You still have to have the last word. Muttered under your breath, though. Much better unheard. "No, you won't."

 

***************

 

 _Push and pull. That's how it's always gonna be, apparently, with Jo Fucking Harvelle._  Dean knows he had no business checking into this motel. But here he is, alone in some crap room, watching cheap porn on pay-per-view, rattling the bed with Magic Fingers and imagining it's you. He should've just gotten a hold of Sam after you left this afternoon. Should've lied to his brother that the hookup happened fast and that he's done, ready to hit the road again and not look back. His slipping grip on sanity is pushing him to do exactly that.

Yet he just...  _can't_. Because then there's the pull. It's fucking powerful, hauling him out of the motel as evening falls, urging his feet back down the road to the one place where he has no business at all. Earlier today, you hadn't been afraid to call him out on how many damn times he'd pulled this crap. And now he's pulling it again. 

But no—this time is different. Definitely different. Because this time, he isn't gonna fight the pull inside. This time... he's giving in.

Dean strides into the roadhouse to find the place empty. On first glance, at least. Thinks to himself that the Harvelles must have some killer surveillance system, if they're comfortable leaving the space unattended so often.  _Are they keeping watch over the front door by some video monitor from the backroom? Can Jo see him?_ He sure as hell hopes so. Maybe he should give her a show.  _Get her all wet till she can't help but touch herself..._

"Are you  _serious_ right now?" a familiar feisty voice snaps, as you promptly emerge from the back. "Get. The hell.  _Out._ "

"Whoa, whoa..." Dean backs away and puts up his hands, because you've got your shotgun again. And you look and sound a hundred times more hostile than when you two had first met. "Easy, Miss. Is this how you greet all your guests? I'm just, you know—a thirsty hunter coming by from down the road..."

You glare at him, wondering if he can tell you were getting off on just the thought of him barely two minutes ago. Your fingers are still sticky and slick, which is totally embarrassing and gross; your hair is all tangled from having been thrashing around on your pillow. Your mom recently left to run an errand, which is really quite convenient, and Ash is sleeping like a baby in the backroom, so you're pretty much alone. Of course you were gonna use that private time to fantasize about the gorgeous god who kept letting you go. 

From the smug look on his face, Dean fucking knows. "So, uh... whatever happened to customer service, Jo?"

"Cut the shit, Winchester. You're no customer."

He turns his lips down in a playful pout and shrugs his big, strong shoulders. "Doesn't mean I can't be served..."

"Well,  _sir_ ," you mutter, cocking your rifle violently. "With all due respect, if you're not here to fuck me, I think you should  _really_ just fuck the fuck off."

But he doesn't. Instead he comes closer, his voice low and dangerously rough. "What makes you think I'm not?"

 _Oh God. Oh God._  All of a sudden you're shaking. It's taking all your self-control to manage not to drop this shotgun to the floor, not to start moaning like a whore. "...what?"

He finishes the sentence then, instantly sealing your fate as his slut. "That I'm not here to  _fuck_?"

 _Well, that's that_. Your knees buckle, your fingers twitch and fumble and the rifle fucking tumbles from your hands. Thankfully, by now Dean is standing close enough to catch you, which you're certain happened just as he had planned. He grabs you by the waist, one palm wandering upward to cradle your face, the other downward till his thumb dips teasingly under the top of your pants. You shudder and gasp, succumbing to the strength and the heat of his dominant grasp. In this moment you know: you would do literally  _anything_  that he could ever ask.

Pressed against his firm chest, you can feel your hearts pounding in sync, hard and fast. You cling desperately onto his body, every perfect inch, and each word from his beautiful lips, as he speaks. "Listen, Jo. I need you to know... that I don't deserve you. And you don't deserve me."

_Well, yeah. Obviously. You are way out of everyone's league..._

That wasn't what he meant, though. Not exactly. "You deserve better," he says, as if anyone or anything better than Dean Winchester even exists. "But, uh—here's a dirty little secret..."

 _Shit. You are so soaking wet_. Whatever it is, this secret, with your worshipful gaze you make a silent promise to keep it.

Dean takes your quivering lower lip between his pearly teeth and bites it, gently, sweetly. _God, it feels so good it hurts._  As do his words. "We don't always have to get what we deserve," he whispers as one of his hands reaches under your shirt and starts groping your tits. "Ain't that right, bitch."

" _Yes_..." you sigh, arching your back as he handles the stiff peaks and soft aching flesh of your breasts, the magic of his fingers making you whimper and squirm. "Y-yes, sir..."

"Good girl," he purrs, shifting smoothly till your back is shoved against the nearest wall. He towers over you, surrounding you, so big and strong and tall. "You oughta know—you don't deserve to get hurt. Not this pretty little body, not this precious fucking heart. But it's what you want. What you  _need_. From me. Isn't it."

 _Hooooly shit_...

"And I don't deserve love. But right now... you know what? I just don't give a fuck," he grunts, both hands suddenly at your hips as he rips off your pants. "So I'm gonna take it. All the love you have to give."

It feels like you're dying, but  _damn_ , every word from his heavenly mouth is a reason to live...

In a matter of seconds, Dean has you stripped completely naked. With your whole body reduced to a trembling mess, convulsing in pure bliss, you find yourself kneeling beside his feet like an obedient pet. You've honestly never had urges like this toward anyone else. Sure, you're into kinky sex, at least in porn and in theory. But not sex that involves the destruction of all of your dignity. Nothing like  _this_. Until Dean.

And your dom—your master, your god—clearly digs what he sees. "Mmm, already on your knees? Look at you, bitch. So eager to please..."

You have mostly lost the ability to speak. Yet these words pour out of your mouth anyway, coming easy as the air you breathe. "I love you, Dean."

He smirks as you impulsively smash your snout into the crotch of his jeans. "I know," he states, grabbing a hold of your hair to control your whole face. "How much do you love me, Jo? Hm? I wanna know how much, you filthy little slut."

 _Shit—this is super degrading and twisted._  He's gonna get off on you being so into him, all your feelings so tragically unrequited, so pathetic and desperate. And you fucking love it. "Oh God, sir, I love you  _so_ much..."

"Yeah? Then shut up and show me," he commands as he starts to unfasten his jeans with one hand, the fingers of the other still twined in your hair forcefully. 

Your tongue hangs dripping wet from your mouth, and it twitches with thirst when his massive cock finally springs out. It feels like all the stars across the universe align, just at the sight. You could never have imagined any thing on earth being so beautiful, so perfect; and God knows you had tried. Ever since meeting him, his cock was all that you had dreamed about these past few nights. You weren't sure if Dean would ever let you see it, in real life. Maybe not long ago, it had been the wrong place, the wrong time— _but right now... it's just right._

He seems to think the same. Taking his huge dick in one fist, he keeps your head at a slight, torturous distance, gripping your hair tighter, holding your gaping mouth inches away from the meat that you crave, teasing you with the hope of a taste. "You know, when I said I had fifty-one hours to waste... you should've seen the look on your pretty whore face. Just the thought of spending all that time with me got you so wet. So damn desperate." 

Dean's words and deeds in this moment have that same exact effect.

"And now—if you're a good little slut... well, I think I can give you that. All that time we didn't spend," he says, dragging the leaking tip of his cock across your forehead, down your cheek and toward your upper lip, leaving a sweet, glistening trail of precome all over your skin. "I've got fifty-one hours all over again. To use you as my dirty little pet. My fucking plaything."

When Dean at last loosens his hold on your head and lets your mouth descend, you can feel the floodgates in your body and soul bursting open. The flavor of him on your tongue and the sensation of his cock filling your throat up is pure motherfucking heaven. You reach around to grab at his firm ass with reverent hands, to pull him ever closer in, eyes bulging halfway out of their sockets with desire and devotion as you look adoringly up at him. Your silent gaze profusely thanks him for so perfectly existing. And as he starts brutally fucking your face, overstretching your lips, heavy balls slamming into your chin with each thrust, good and hard, getting you drunk on his sweat and his musk, goddamn drowning you in it... you  _know_  you were put on this earth just to worship his dick. You've never been more certain of anything.

And  _fuck_ , the effect that this worshipful blowjob is having on him—the way he throws his pretty head back for a second, mouth wide open, angelically moaning, then looks down and devilishly dishes out some more dirty talk, while he keeps watching his massive cock fuck your jaw till it's totally broken... it's just sending you over the edge. It's even harder to process all of this when your vision is swimming with stars.

" _God_ , Jo, that look in your eyes—like you love me so much you could die..." Dean euphorically sighs. "Keep 'em open, sweetheart. Open wide. Gets me so fucking hard."

The sick and twisted bitch you are, an utter piece of trash, you're getting off on hearing him talk like that—knowing that he'll never love you the way you love him, with your whole fucking heart. Getting high on the pain as it rips you apart. It's not long before he explodes his whole hot, creamy load down your throat. And it tastes like the pride that you've swallowed. Like knowing that your entire existence is worth absolutely nothing other than to serve him, and that you will never deserve him. It tastes like being ruined. And because you've been ruined by him, it tastes like fucking heaven.

Most of it, he lets you drink. Some ends up on your cheeks and your chin. You lap up every sweet, precious drop, slobbering like a dog, thanking him when he sweeps up the come you can't reach with your tongue, pushing it past your lips as you suck it all off of his thumb.

"So that's how much you love me, huh? Hell of a way to show," Dean growls, guiding your mouth back down toward his dick so that you can press doting kisses all over it. "You don't care whether or not I even give a shit about you. Do you, Jo. You know that makes you a pathetic piece of scum?"

"Mmm-hmmmm..." you hum as your lips lock around the wet tip of his cock, your tongue swirling and searching for lingering traces of his divine come.

He smirks, spitting down on your forehead and dealing your cheek a hard slap. "Mmm. And you know what, slut? We ain't even done."

Just those words are enough to make you come. You will never,  _ever_  be done loving this man, and showing it in every damn way you can. It hasn't even been a half hour since he got here, and you started with fifty-one...

Dean's evergreen eyes sparkle darkly, the heat of his gaze cutting straight to your soaking wet cunt. "No, we've only just fucking begun."

 

***************

 

"I am going to hell."

Dean says it like he knows it— _really_ knows it—fifty-one hours later, lying beside you in bed, staring emptily up at the ceiling in this crap motel. The look in his eyes is so dark it can kill, and it gives you the chills. So you brush it off. After all of the shit that's gone down, you're pleasantly surprised to find that the tough girl in you can still do that so well.

"Going to hell?" you echo, propping yourself up on one elbow. "For what, taking me to heaven? You know, Dean—I'm pretty sure your greatest sin... is just how much you hate yourself."

The only response he can manage is a sad excuse for a chuckle.

"I mean, it's  _obscene_. Honestly," you go on. "You think you're, like, some kind of monster or something. For no fucking reason."

Dean finally turns to look at you then, though he quickly regrets that decision. You don't need a mirror to know what he sees: bruises and bloodstains all over your skin. He doesn't seem to care right now that you had asked, had  _begged_ , for everything. Stares back up at the ceiling. "No fucking reason? I dunno, Jo. I'm counting at least fifty-one."

Your heart shatters a little.  _So every hour that you'd spent together... is another reason Dean Winchester hates himself._ You know what he meant, though. It's not supposed to be an insult to you. That much you know is true. Nonetheless, your instinct is to take it in the way that hurts the most.  _Because the pain, the shame, the horribly humiliating heartbreak_... from him, it's what you crave. In words and actions both. It's why, after you'd blown him in the roadhouse, when time came to relocate to the motel, you hadn't even bothered putting on clothes. Had literally crawled behind him naked down the road. It was just so disgustingly wrong that it felt fucking  _right_ , and it wasn't as if it mattered, in the dark of the night, with just a few nameless strangers driving by.

You'd had to beg Dean for the privilege of crawling at his feet in public like that. And the gracious god he is, he had obliged. Even found a thick coil of rope to knot around your neck, to treat you as his property, to drag you like a beast upon a leash. But he had stopped about halfway through, after some jerks in a passing truck whistled and threw trash at you—pulled you up to your feet, taken you in his arms, held you close and carried you the rest of the way there, as if his whole purpose in life was to keep you from harm.

You had feared that he might not go on with the whole fifty-one hour thing, after that.  _How could he_ , you'd thought, when every muscle in his beautiful body seemed tense with the gut-wrenching sense that everything about this was wrong? And yet, now that the stage and the stakes had been set, for the fifty-one hours of mind-blowing, life-changing sex...  _well, how could he not_. No matter how badly it screwed you up, now that it had started, if it stopped you'd be even more fucked. You needed it, you needed  _him_ , like oxygen. It'd been that way since Dean first walked in to the roadhouse, your life thereby ruined.

So once you got to the motel, there'd been a whole battle of push and pull, between the two of you. But mostly just within him.

Pull had won.

And Dean had given in. Given himself over to every goddamned minute of the shit that happened. And on every level, it had been hot and dirty as hell, sweet and pure as heaven.

But now he's lying here and...  _ugh, you fucking hate him_. Sure, you get the way he must be feeling, what he's thinking. You get it. But you're not about to accept it. You go into tough-girl mode as you respond to the self-hating crap that he's got going on.

"So you seriously think all of this was some big, unforgivable sin?" you ask him, taking his silence as a yes. "Wow. You really are fucked in the head, Dean. I mean—it's just sex."

He doesn't move his eyes off of the ceiling, but he mumbles something. "No, it's not."

Your stupid heart stops. "...what?"

"Jo. Come on," he urges, briefly meeting your gaze just then. "Don't play dumb."

 _Oh, that's rich, coming from him_ , you think. He's right, obviously. The sex was good and hard and rough. Hit all the spots. But for you both, the sex was not what got you off. It was the love. The giving and the taking, feeling everything, far deeper than the scars upon your skin. All from you to him. It was the love. And it will always be the love.

You know that, just as well as he does, but  _fuck it_ —you're gonna play dumb all you want. And it's not as if you can blame you. He's the goddamn king of denying things. "So now me saying that we just had sex was stupid?"

Dean dips his head in a slight nod. "I've built my life on bullshit, so, uh—yeah. I know it when I see it."

Well, that you don't doubt is a very true statement. And you hate him even more for it. Love hurts less when you can pretend that it's hatred. "You are such a fucking idiot," you grumble, moving your body weight off of your elbow, turning away from him and burrowing into your pillow. "I hate you."

"Yeah, I know," Dean murmurs, shifting onto his side, reaching around you from behind to pull you close. His touch is soft upon your skin, and soon you feel his tender lips seeking to heal each beaten inch. You hate the way that it feels good. And yet you needed that right now, more than you should. You're too afraid to say or let it show. He so already knows it, though. "I... I'm really sorry, Jo."

His kisses feel like pity. And it hurts, beyond the scars that run skin-deep. Far worse. "I don't want you to be. But I know it's not up to me."

"Damn right it's not. You're hurting all over and it's  _my_  fucking fault," he mutters as his sweet mouth brushes over a whole patch of black and blue, the deepest bruise, the darkest spot. "God, I wish I could just..."

"Love me back?" the words slip off your tongue without thinking. It's too hard to think, with him. Too hard to do any goddamn thing. So you decide it's time to shut him up. "Well, you don't. And you can't. So just stop."

There are at least fifty-one things Dean might've said, in answer to that. To the notion that he'll never love you back. At least fifty-one ways to respond.

He won't dare say a single one.

 

***************

 

It's slightly easier to pull off the whole tough-girl vibe now that you've got some clothes on. To come off cool and strong. It's just one of Dean's flannels, which is big enough to fit you like a butt-ugly button-down dress, so you don't have much dignity in it, really. But you'll take whatever you can get.

"So. If we ever have to, um—see each other again..." you sigh as you tuck in the last button, "let's just pretend this never happened, yeah?"

Dean blinks and starts chewing his lip. It's unfair how sexy that is, especially when he is still naked, staring at you from in bed.

You scowl at him. "What."

He shrugs. "Nothing. Just... normally, I'm the one who has to say stuff like that."

"Yeah, well, normal can go fuck itself."

Dean's bare chest rumbles with a light chuckle. "Think it already has..."

 _Ugh, it's despicable how he's so fucking adorable._ "Don't be a jackass."

"You love it," he teases, but pauses and swallows as soon as he says it, as if he can gulp the stupid words back in. "I mean..."

"S'okay, Dean," you assure him calmly, proud of your inner tough girl for keeping her shit together. "Love isn't some dirty forbidden word."

He looks down and grumbles. "It is for me."

"Well, I don't think it should be," you tell him. "But hey—I'm not your shrink. To you, I ain't a damn thing."

You can see, can almost feel, the way those words just made him cringe. For half a second too long, though... he just says nothing in response. Nothing.

It's too late, by the time Dean breaks his silence. It was really too late long before it began. He rises from the bed to stand. "Jo..."

"Don't," you cut him off as you head for the door. "Whatever you're about to say, or do, just... just don't. Okay? I'm gonna go."

He stops at the foot of the bed, hanging off of the edge. "...okay. I'll, uh—"

You swing the door open and walk out, knowing better than to look back, as you abruptly cut him off again. You don't need him to finish that sentence, to know how it's going to end. "No, you won't."

 

***************

 

Dean had business to finish. He'd mentioned as much, back when Ellen had offered a bed at the roadhouse. He hadn't mentioned what it was: fixing his Baby up. Taking something broken, something that matters a hell of a lot to him, and dedicating himself to making it whole, putting all of the pieces together again.

Back in Bobby's junkyard now, that's what he's doing. The Impala has been badly banged up, ever since the big bad demon-driven truck collision. The crash that began the series of events leading to his father's tragic death. But it isn't the truck's fault; not the demon who'd driven it, nor even the demon who had made a dark, deadly deal with his dad. The blame is Dean's to bear, no one else's to share. It's all his. Always is.

Sam walks up to talk to his big brother at one point. Plays shrink. Makes Dean feel even worse about shit. Because, well, that's Sam's thing.

And Dean ends up taking it all out on Baby. Bashing the nearly-fixed car with a crowbar till it's badly broken again. Smashing it good and hard. If Baby had a heart, Dean would be breaking it to pieces, fucking tearing it apart. Because...  _well, because nothing._ There is no goddamned reason for what he is doing.

That's what he tells himself, for the moment. That there is no reason. 

Really, though... there are at least fifty-one.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed the read :)
> 
> Always grateful for kudos and comments, if you did! <33


	25. (S02E03) Listen to Her Purr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 3 ("Bloodlust")*
> 
> *In which you are Lenore, the humane vampire*
> 
> Dean Winchester is a hunter. Lives to slaughter monsters. Sees the world in black and white.
> 
> You’re a vampire. The very kind of evil thing that he’s supposed to fight.
> 
> But maybe you’re not; maybe you’re human at heart. Where it counts. Dean has never seen the world in shades of gray, but after meeting you today, and then fucking your undead brains out… maybe he’s about to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii Deanbitches! So this scene explores more of Dean's self-hatred (because it's such a big central part of his character but ughhh it breaks my heart that he sees himself like that when he's so damn perfect). And since the reader is Lenore, there's some vampire sex. But it's very different from the last chapter in which Dean fucked a bloodsucker :) Hope you'll enjoy this one!

***Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 3 ("Bloodlust")***

***In which you are Lenore, the humane vampire***

 

****

 

"Woo!" Dean lets out a loud hoot from the driver's seat as the Impala's engine roars beneath his feet. "Listen to her purr. You ever heard anything so sweet?"

With one elbow hanging out the passenger side window, Sam looks over at his brother quizzically. Dean's grip on the wheel is tight, knuckles white, head nodding and swaying to the beat of the rock music he keeps blasting on repeat. Sam tries not to think about how fucking hot his brother looks when he's all amped up like this. Damn it, he really tries. But it's hard as hell when Dean smiles so wide, all twinkling green eyes and pearly white teeth, practically making love to his rumbling car and the long road beneath.

To blow off some of his own sexual tension, Sam cracks a cheap joke about how much Dean loves his most precious possession. "You know, if you two wanna get a room—just let me know, Dean."

His brother plays along. "Aww, don't listen to him, Baby," he reassures his car, stroking the dashboard tenderly. "He doesn't understand us."

Sam snorts at how shamelessly silly that was. "You're in a good mood..."

"Why shouldn't I be?" the driver demands, almost angrily. Almost giving away the fact that when he's happy... well, he never is, really.

Dean Winchester clings to the little things that bring him pleasure—like his classic car, hard rock and harder liquor, greasy burgers, pie, and girls— _always the girls_... because these basic pleasures are the only kind of happiness that he thinks he deserves. On a good day.  _Whereas on a bad day_... hell, lately almost all his days are bad, and when they are, he feels like he's earned nothing but a bullet in the head.

He reflects for a second on how so many girls seem to get off on telling him he's perfect. And treating him like it. Jo was the most recent, but the time he'd spent with her—despite being some of the best sex of his whole damn life—was complicated, with feelings on her end and his, though he'd been too scared to admit. It's an incident that he's been forcing himself to forget. So he thinks back to all the other chicks he's fucked instead, most of whom had also been head over heels for him from the first instant. Straight up obsessed. Dean knows he's good in bed, and that he's sort of decent-looking, or whatever, but he'll never comprehend the idolizing praise he gets. As if he's literally flawless. As if he exists to be serviced and worshiped.  _Seriously, what is it with these kinky little bitches? And not just girls—even his kid brother thinks it. It's fucking ridiculous._  

Sure, Dean himself gets off on playing along. The dominant sadist in him lives for that kind of thing. His self-esteem is shit, but his huge dick has an ego all its own to make up for it. And it does feel damn good to conceive of himself as a king, as some kind of god, even. Sometimes, in the heat of the moment... he even believes it.

But it always ends the same. Dean just ends up hating himself even worse, after playing that game. He knows his broad shoulders were made for more than just crushing submissive sluts beneath his frame; he knows that they were built to carry guilt, to bear the blame. All of the blame.

Anyhow—he doesn't want to think about that now. And he shouldn't have to. His brother replies saying there's no reason Dean shouldn't be happy, which is bullshit, obviously. Even if poor little Sammy thinks it's true.

 _Whatever, though_. Dean just keeps his hand on the wheel and his eyes on the road. The Impala is speeding toward a new case in Red Lodge, Montana, and there are another whole three hundred miles or so, a good long way to go. He keeps carrying on because this life is all he knows. The hunter's life, the family business.

What he doesn't know is what's about to happen to this wayward life of his. Dean doesn't have a clue how everything will change... all thanks to you.

 

***************

 

You've never needed a reason.

The way you live your undead life—without slaughtering anyone, without spilling or drinking any human blood—you do it because it just seems right. Maybe some part of you still feels human, and wants to cling onto that desperate delusion.  _But why?_ You wonder sometimes. Ever since you were first turned, you just can't help but wonder. And that is what scares you the most: the fact that you don't have an answer. Because maybe some part of you is exactly what you've tried so hard not to be. A monster. You may think that you're Lenore the humane vampire, but deep down, maybe you're no better than any other evil creature.

It helps to have friends—a whole nest, thankfully, of like-minded bloodsuckers. It helps to face this struggle with them. Together. You keep each other sane, and safe, and strong. Maybe they should be your reason. But they're not. Because you know you would still strive to hold onto this way of life, even if all of them were gone.

What you don't know, in this moment, tied to a chair by some cruel hunter named Gordon, who has cut you up and pumped you full of dead man's blood—feeling faint and hopeless, reeling from the poison and the torture... is that the most beautiful man in all the world is right outside the door.

You know it as soon as he walks in. You know everything;  _he_ is everything. It doesn't even make sense, but it doesn't have to.  _That's_ how perfect he is, inside and out—some kind of fucking god, and yet so beautifully human, through and through. His name is Dean, as you'll learn later on.

You've never needed a reason. But now that you have one... it feels like you've needed it all along.

Dean is a living, breathing reason to cling to what keeps you human. And you definitely need him... in more ways than one.

 

***************

 

 _Fuck. Just—fuck._ That's the one thought that keeps on running through Dean's head, as he struggles to wrap it around what has happened, and what it all means, and how it changes things. If it even does.  _Does it?_ He wishes that it wouldn't, but...  _ugh._ No thanks to this one job, now everything is all jacked up.

This Gordon Walker character is one sick bastard, that's for sure. At first, Dean had thought he could see eye to eye with the guy, about how the hunter's life is so clear-cut, so black and white. How the hero deserves to kill, and the monster deserves to die. It always just seemed...  _right_. Dean never needed a reason, other than to simply carry on and fight that same old fight.

The good fight. Or so he had thought.  _But apparently not._ Because now that he has met a different kind of monster, a vampire strong enough and  _good_ enough to resist human blood, to turn her head away, refuse a taste, even when Walker— _that sadistic motherfucker_ —dangled Sammy's bleeding arm over her face... now Dean can't shake the feeling that, in this case, there was only one monster. And it wasn't one of the bloodsuckers. No, it was Gordon: a human. A hunter. 

_Just like himself. Just like Dean Fucking Winchester._

Dean has never felt worse. Never hated himself more.  _What if all this time, through all the hunts, and all the thoughtless slaughters... in any given job that he took on, or maybe even all of them... what if_ he  _was the monster?_

His wandering thoughts are interrupted by his brother. Just as his mind starts to wander even further, to thoughts of how that admirable vampire looked like she might be pretty hot, underneath all that blood... which is  _not_  what he should be thinking about her. 

"Hey—Dean? Dean...?" Sam repeats, laying a concerned hand on Dean's burdened shoulder.

The elder Winchester blinks. "Huh?"

Sam slowly removes his hand. "You said you're good now, but—uh..."

They both look over at Walker, who is currently unconscious, tied to a chair that has been tipped over onto the floor. Dean had done that, of course. Dealt the sorry excuse for a hunter a sucker punch right in the skull, knocking him out cold. As soon as he had done it, he had calmly turned to his brother and said: 'I'm good now. We can go.' 

Dean had thought he'd be ready to leave, after that. The hit had felt cathartic, therapeutic, for sure. Yet it still isn't enough for him to have full closure. That kind of blow was just what Gordon Walker deserved. But what Dean hasn't mentioned to Sam... is that he feels like he himself deserves it more.

 _Maybe he'll just ask Sam to hit him_ , he thinks.  _It'll be payback for when Dean punched him in the face after one of their stupid fights recently_.

But before he can say anything, Sam goes on. "...I don't think you are good, Dean. Not yet. You were standing there zoned out, just now, for like—a solid minute."

Dean blinks again and swallows. "...oh. So?"

Sam glances out the window. "So, before we go... I think you might need something more."

 _Ugh, hell no_ , Dean thinks in a silent moment of panic.  _Please, Sammy—don't take this as an opportunity to offer to blow me... if you pull that shit, I swear I'm walking right out that door..._

What Dean doesn't know is that you were the reason Sam was looking out the window. Sam knows that you're waiting outside, nice and close. All of your friends have fled the scene, but as for you... well, you had told him that you couldn't leave without at least hoping for a moment with Dean. All you want is to look at him, bask in his beauty, and maybe exchange a few words. You should at least thank him for the role that he played in rescuing you, for putting his own life in danger to help out a vampire; you've thanked Sam already, but both brothers had been your saviors. 

You'd also love to have Dean fuck you to pieces, but you'd kept that wish to yourself.  _Surely such pleasure would be too much to ask for._

In any event, Sam understands just what you want. Even—especially—the dirty parts you hadn't mentioned. He lays his hand on Dean's shoulder again. "I, uh... I think you should talk to Lenore."

 

***************

 

Sam invites you inside and steps out, softly closing the front door behind him. Leaving you and Dean in the room. Together. All alone.

Dean looks terrified, but not for the reasons you might've imagined. Not because of what you are. He wouldn't be afraid of that besides, you realize; God knows this man has seen and conquered every type of monster. Maybe he's simply on edge because he knows just what you want, and... well, for your part, in this moment, you're just terrified of rejection.

But you're not gonna ask him for anything. So your pride should be just fine. Then again, he can probably read your mind. No doubt your desires are written all over you— _your undead body, longing so badly to be ravaged by Dean, must look like an open book, open wide..._

Shoving such thoughts aside, you clear your throat and speak. One choked word is all you can manage to say. "Hey."

Dean blinks his beautiful green eyes; the sight makes your knees weak. "Hey, Lenore. You, uh... you doing okay?"

With a faint smile, still recovering from all that dead man's blood, you nod your aching head. "Yeah. And I have you to thank for that."

"Nah," he brushes that off, with a sad little laugh, lowering his face and scratching his neck. "You should just thank Sam. He's the one who—"

You're not about to let him spurn your gratitude. "I owe my life to both of you."

"No." Dean shakes his head, gritting his teeth. "Lenore, you—you don't know..."

"I know what I saw. What you did for me."

"Yeah, well, there's more to me than what you see."

"Really? 'Cause what I see is..." your voice trails off as those words leave your lips. And you pause then to look at him. To  _really_ look at him, to take it all in. After all, vampires do have an extra keen sense of perception. You're able to see not only the full scope of his beauty, how it runs much more than skin-deep... but also the way Dean despises himself, how fiercely he'll always deny his own utter perfection. It breaks your undead heart, and makes you fall for him all over again. Hard.

His pretty lips tremble and part. He's never seen himself as worthy of love, and he isn't about to start.

You can't change that. Not with anything you do or say. You're not sure if anyone can. But you can love him anyway, and that'll have to be enough, just for today. 

"Well, if there's more to you than what I've seen..." you murmur, daring to take a few steps toward him, heart pounding as you draw closer, "...then show me. I want to see everything, Dean."

The blood pulsating through his veins, so loud that you can hear, sounds red and hot, and it's pure music to your ears. Not because you want to drink it, which would be in line with your vampiric instincts—rather, because it means that his gorgeous body might be getting a little bit worked up.  _Excited_. Vampire or not, you don't thirst for Dean's blood. All you want is to drain him of a certain... other fluid.

He swallows, throat contracting visibly. "You mean..."

You meet his emerald gaze, finally face to face. "Whatever you want me to mean."

Dean licks his lip, looks down at the floor and laughs nervously. "Listen, sweetheart—the last time I, uh... nailed a vampire..."

"Nailed?" you echo, one eyebrow cocked. "You mean fucked?"

He gulps.

You are  _so_ damn aroused right now. "So you've done it before."

"Lenore..."

"Gotta say, I'm a little surprised."

Dean shifts uncomfortably and shuts his eyes. "It was the first and fucking  _last_  time."

"Why?"

When his eyes open again, they're blazing dangerously, burning holes through your own. "Oh, you don't wanna know."

The monster in you won't take no for an answer, though. "The hell I don't."

"Fine," he snaps. "You wanna know why? Wanna know how it ended?"

Your undead glare gives him a silent yes.

So Dean gives you the answer. It isn't quite what you'd expected. "I cut off her fucking head," he spits out the confession like a curse, and then turns, unable to look at you straight after blurting those words. " _That's_  why."

The statement hits you like a punch in the gut; that much you won't deny. But it doesn't hit you all that hard. You're not as appalled as he thinks you are.  _What's so wrong about what he had done, after all?_  Dean has spent his whole life ganking monsters. The fact that he fucked one of them before killing her... well, as far as you're concerned, he was just doing her a favor. You don't doubt that the bitch had it coming. He wouldn't have slaughtered her otherwise. Dean Winchester is a lot of things, but he's not the no-conscience, cold-blooded murdering type.

You shrug and let out a calm sigh. "Well, I'm sure she deserved it."

Dean has taken a few steps across the room, his muscular back turned toward you. "That's not the point, damn it—"

"Then what is?"

"The point is—" he turns to face you now, words halting on his lips for just a fraction of an instant, too triggered now for him to hold them in, "...the point is that some part of me fucking  _enjoyed_  it. You know what that makes me? Huh? Goddamned scum of the earth. Worse than that bloodsucking bitch.  _So_  much worse. Because I walk around like some kind of hero when the truth is—is I'm just nothing but a sick, twisted, sadistic piece of shit."

You stare up at him, speechless for a second. And all that you can think is  _damn_ , he's gorgeous, and you really,  _really_  need to suck his dick. 

Dean Winchester just made what may have been the most depressing declaration of his life. So with the words that you say next, you figure you might as well try to lighten the moment. "You know you're even sexier soaked in self-hatred?"

He blinks, still fuming hard but also caught off guard, a little bit. "Did you  _really_  just say that?"

Your shoulders lift up in a nonchalant shrug again. "I'm a monster. What'd you expect?"

"Well, damn," he mutters, green gaze scanning your face. "Takes one to know one, I guess. Though to be honest—you're, um... a hell of a lot more human than I am."

You quirk your brows at him. "What makes you say that?"

"You kidding?" Dean asks, like it's obvious. "The way you refused blood, resisted your instincts, when—when Gordon cut Sam..."

"That doesn't make me human."

"Does in my book. Where it counts."

Looking up in his gleaming green eyes, at his perfect pink mouth, you can tell that he means it, and  _God_ , it's the sweetest damn thing. You may both see yourselves as monsters, but the way you see each other—which, at present, feels like all that matters... is nothing but human. Dean may be a god of a man, in your eyes, literally flawless, but he's deeply human nonetheless. Focusing on the beat of his heart, the pounding of his blood again, drowning in his evergreen gaze and his dizzying scent, you can't help but give in to the raw, human heat of the moment.

You can tell that he is, too. That Dean is giving in, as you lean into him. And that—now  _that_  is the sweetest damn thing. 

Before your lips meet his, you whisper sinful words into the space between them. Soon to close that distance with a kiss. The vanishing distance, the difference between being a beast and being human. Where it counts, you're the same, you and him. "Why don't you fuck me where it counts, then."

And that's all it takes, for the dam in Dean to break. For the beast to burst free of its cage. Not the beast that he believes himself to be—there's nothing evil or heartless about it, despite all its darkness. It's just raw and real and pure, his deepest nature. So damn natural that it's supernatural. His human heart beats even faster, harder, stronger, when he's fucking like an animal. Like a monster.

First his lips crash into yours, tongue seeking tongue, teeth against teeth, without the slightest fear of all the fangs that lurk beneath. Your whole world swivels on its axis as he shoves you like you weigh nothing at all, slamming your back hard on the nearest wall. He smells so good, tastes even better; it goes without saying you've never been wetter. You moan in bliss, head spinning, surrendering every fiber of your being to the power of his movements and the passion of his kiss.

It feels like you can't fucking breathe, when he finally breaks it. His breath is your oxygen now. But so are the words that pour out of his mouth. "This what you wanted, bitch? Want me to fuck your undead brains out? Yeah, I'll show you where it fucking  _counts_..."

His heavenly lips wander down, toward your neck, and it feels as if you are the victim whose blood is supposed to be sucked. You would drain all your veins for this man in a second. Give him everything that you are and have ever been, every drop, every last ounce.

And Dean  _knows_  it, and he's even sexier soaked in self-confidence. "Told you I fucked a vampire once. Deep in her dirty little cunt," he reminds you as his savage hands tear at your clothes, fast and rough. "But you know what? I ain't ever fucked a bloodsucker's mouth."

 _Oh Goddd_ —you can feel your panties soaking, just at the thought of swallowing Dean's luscious cock. That's when he rips them off. Rips the thin lacy cloth to shreds. He pushes you down to your knees before him, now that you're fully naked. Starts unbuckling his belt. And tells you to beg.

Begging is all you wanted to do, long before he commanded you. Yet everything is that much hotter when you're taking his orders. "Please...  _please_ may I have your perfect cock, sir..."

Dean's lips curve up into a devilish smirk. "You gonna suck me dry, you filthy fucking whore?" he taunts, letting his undone jeans and boxer briefs pool at the floor, watching you gawk as he finally unleashes his beautiful cock. "That's what fanged sluts like you love to do, isn't it.  _Suck_."

"Yes, sir!" you scream as he takes his length in his fist and starts stroking his massive meat.

"But it's not my blood you wanna suck. Is it, bitch."

"No sir, I want—" you grunt, suddenly struck dumb as he gathers a drop of precome on the tip of his thumb. 

He snickers down at you like what you are, a desperate piece of scum. "Tell me, you greedy little cunt."

"I want... I want your come..."

"You want me to come down that fucking throat, slut?"

" _Yes_!" you shriek, unsure how you're even still able to speak. "Yes, sir, I  _need_ it..."

"Then make it good, bitch," he snarls as he brings the head of his cock closer to your panting lips, smearing them with his delicious juices just before he pushes in. "Take all this dick deep in your dirty mouth. You better make it fucking count."

Of course, your urge is to shout  _yes sir_ —but by the time that impulse surges, Dean's meat is already all over your slobbering tongue, so not a word is heard. Your vows of submission just vibrate and thrum against the throbbing veins of his cock as he thrusts violently in and out of your mouth. Spit sloshes out of the sides, your chapped lips stretching painfully wide; the way his dick destroys your throat is fucking  _loud_ , making you gasp and gag and gulp pathetically around him, and the look on his gorgeous face makes it clear just how much he's getting off on the sound. So when he explodes, shooting rope after rope of sweet come straight in your gaping throat, you're determined to make a damn show of the way that you swallow him down. The tip of his cock is lodged deep past your tonsils, ruining your gag reflex with his heavy girth, but somehow you manage enough control over the muscles and membranes back there to massage him and milk him for all that he's worth. You won't dare let a drop of this gift go to waste. Staring up into his flawless face, you worship your king with your wide, loving gaze as you savor his mind-blowing taste.

 _Yes_ , you think to yourself as you guzzle the best damn thing you'll ever drink,  _vampire bitches like you sure do know how to suck_. More than just blood. Even without a single fang. Those sharp teeth all stayed out of the way, as your face got deliciously fucked. Dean knew they would, and  _God_ , he fucked it good.

"Holy  _fuuuck_ ," he grunts as your tongue squirms against the underside of his pulsing cock, both your flesh and his twitching from the immense pleasure and intense aftershock. "Just...  _fuck_."

When Dean finally slips his length free of your breathless lips and swiftly lifts you up, you moan at both the absence of his meat inside your mouth and at the blessing of his touch, realizing fully that you've never needed anything so much. He claims your soul with another all-consuming kiss, not breaking it for so much as a second as the two of you land down upon the nearby couch— _or maybe it's the floor, or some table, or just... whatever surface, really doesn't matter_ —and then fucks you, in your soaking wet cunt, sweet and gentle for a minute, building up to rough and hard, almost as if you're human or something. Because for now, right where it counts... you are.

And so is he, so beautifully. Though he's also some kind of god, taking you so damn high, up somewhere far beyond the stars... you spend the rest of today thanking him for that, in the only way you can. By kissing and caressing every perfect inch of him, worshipful lips and hands making love to his skin, and the beauty within, for hours on end. Pleasuring and servicing him, making him come all over your face and your body again and again and again. This kind of sex—the kind that blows the mind, blesses the soul just as it burns the flesh, binds the heart even while breaking it apart... it's the best part of being human. The sweetest damn thing. You have him to thank for this, for saving your life, then making it worthwhile to exist. For being your reason. For everything.

Some sad part of you knows that, when this is over, Dean Winchester will just hate himself even more. But it's not as if you could've stopped it. It's just... who he is. And that makes it perfect. It's sad and it's twisted and doesn't make sense, but it doesn't have to. Because at least for a moment, with you, he  _felt_  human, yet divine at the same time—fucking perfect, even—and knew that it was true. He felt the love you had to give. Felt the strength of that love, just how much it is worth. A whole reason to live. In these moments, he feels it where it counts. And as long as there are times like this, then maybe it's fine, maybe nature's design, for him to go about his life thinking the opposite, self-esteem shattered to shit, in all the times between. Maybe that's just what it means to be Dean.

And, in any event, you know it best: he's even sexier soaked in self-hatred.

 

***************

 

Sam motions to turn on some music, because well, he and his brother have been on the damn road for hours without saying a word, despite all of the younger Winchester's efforts, and Dean's brooding silence is full of self-hatred, and honestly, it's ridiculous how fucking sexy that is.

As soon as Sam's hand reaches for the tunes, the smoldering driver slaps it away. Dean still doesn't say a word, but his whole vibe reminds his kid brother that shotgun is supposed to shut his cakehole.  _Figures_.

"Okay, be that way. Jerk," Sam grumbles, slinking deep into his seat. He still doesn't regret having encouraged you and his brother to bond over being human at heart and, inevitably, to have hot filthy sex. Knows that it was good for Dean's conscience, and for his whole twisted self-image complex. But Sam hadn't expected the aftereffects of that session to be  _this_  intense. "You really gonna sulk like this forever? Even driving in Baby can't perk you up? Aren't you glad to—you know... listen to her purr?"

Dean pauses for a beat before he finally speaks. And then he shrugs, although he knows that he can never shrug the burden off his shoulders. "Just don't sound the same anymore."

Nothing does. What once was music to his ears—the engine of his precious car, the rumble and the roar, all rough and gritty yet somehow so clear and pure—the sweetest sound he loved to hear... is sweet no longer. Now that everything is fucked. Because from this day forth, Dean Winchester will always have a shadow of a doubt, whenever he's slaying a monster. Doubt about good and evil, about what his victims deserve, what his victories are worth. Doubt about his whole damn life as a hunter. Some part of him will always wonder, in a way he never had before. A way he never wanted to.

He'll see the world in shades of gray—nothing will ever be the same, after today. All thanks to you.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this! :)
> 
> Always grateful for kudos and comments <3


	26. (S02E04) Afraid to Get Dirty?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 4 ("Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things")*
> 
> *In which you are Lindsey the slutty roommate*
> 
> So your dead roomie is a zombie. That's pretty fucked up, but even more fucked up is what you are: a dirty little slut. 
> 
> Especially after a drop-dead gorgeous stud breaks into your apartment—then shows up again later on, covered in dirt and sweat... it's just insane how goddamn good he looks, and smells, how fucking wet that makes you get.
> 
> You'd never had a kink, for that kind of thing. Until him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiii Deanbitches! Sooo this scene sort of focuses on a new kink: for Dean's scent/sweat/armpits. (Which is one of those things that I find so fucking weird and disgusting when it comes to anyone other than him... but that's true of most stuff in this fic so um what else is new.) I just feel like he must smell so good I can't even imagine?!?! I want to spend my whole life breathing in nothing but him :'(
> 
> Anywayyy, the reader in this chapter does more than just lick and sniff Dean's sweaty pits lol. There is lots of that, but there's other stuff as well :)
> 
> Okay, so now that that's out of the way, hopefully at least some of you will enjoy the read :D

 

***Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 4 ("Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things")***

***In which you are Lindsey the slutty roommate***

 

 

You've never quite felt guilty about being such a slut. It's not as if you chose to be this way, a dirty little skank with a constant craving for cock. It's just how you are; it's not really your fault. And hell, it's definitely not your fault that Angela—your roommate, whose boyfriend you frequently fucked—is now dead. She caught you and Matt in the act and was super upset and then got in a car accident. She herself is to blame for what happened.  _Should've known better than to drive off_ , you think,  _in the state she was in, all depressed and distraught. Stupid cunt_.

 _...Ugh._  You could slap yourself silly for thinking such dark, twisted thoughts. Maybe being a slut isn't your fault. But screwing Matt, more times than you care to recall, behind your best friend's back? Betraying her like that? On some level, you do know it's wrong. You feel like utter crap, now that she's gone. 

And just to make crap even crappier for you... now your boy-toy is gone, too. Cut his own throat last night. You've got no idea why; it's not like Matt loved Angela enough to be a wreck after her death. He'd said that he kept seeing her around, creepy visions of his dead girlfriend, for days, so maybe his poor ass just went insane.  _Which is a damn shame_ , you mournfully reflect.  _It's a shame that he's dead, 'cause he had a big dick and sure knew how to use it._

You curse your bitchy brain again, hating yourself for being such a skank. Lolling in bed as all these dirty, guilty thoughts run through your head, you figure it's high time to force yourself awake and start your day. Maybe today's the day you'll stop being a slut, for once—after the death of your two closest friends, whose relationship you sort of fatally ruined... ain't no better time to make a big life change. So you roll out of bed and step into the hallway.

And...  _holy mother of God_. Right there, standing just a few feet away from you, is a complete stranger, a drop-dead gorgeous stud who, somehow you're already sure, has the best dick in all the world. And sure as fuck knows how to use it. Better than Matt, better than anyone. You're not sure how you would know this, or even who the hell he is. But you don't give a shit. You just know that you need him  _right now—in your mouth, in your ass, in your cunt..._

Well, fuck. So much for not being a slut.

 

***************

 

Dean knows he should be focusing on the job. But he's distracted, damn it— _by thoughts about Mom, whose grave is in this godforsaken town, although he couldn't bear to look at it... about Dad, about how the bastard had summoned a demon and—and traded... ugh, shit_. Most of Dean's thoughts are about how he himself is supposed to be dead. He really doesn't want to think about it. Any of it. So he doesn't. Focuses instead on the only good thing that has got him distracted: that pretty little roommate he just visited.

Just the thought of you gets his dick wet. You'd been wearing these cute slutty PJs, for fuck's sake, when he'd broken in your apartment and run into you in the hallway.  _A strappy skintight tanktop, and a skimpy pair of panties, pale pink lace... standing there like a dumb little skank, mouth agape... hot damn_ , in that instant, he'd wanted so badly to fuck that look of shock right off of your face. The horndog in him can't stop thinking about you. And he doesn't want to. You've got dirty slut written all over your body, and that's just Dean Winchester's type, obviously.

So why hadn't he fucked you on the spot? There was no doubt that you both wanted it. After claiming to be Angela's cousin, apparently named Alan, suggesting you put some clothes on, and then comforting you on the couch through a whole box of Kleenex, asking you a few questions about your dead friends—all nice and innocent, both of you pretending not to notice your soaking wet cunt and his massive erection... after all that foreplay, hardcore sex would've been the most inevitable thing. 

Yet for some odd reason, it just hadn't happened. On Dean's end, he figures maybe it's because his upstairs head was too distracted dealing with his issues, battling his demons. Maybe you've got demons, too. Some sense of guilt, some self-hatred complex that you're trying to work through. Maybe you cock-blocked yourselves and each other because you're both sick motherfuckers.

 _And, well, if that's the reason_... then that just means that, sexually, you are a perfect match for Dean, and he just wants to fuck your fucked up brains out that much harder. That's why, before leaving, he made sure to give you his number.

Dean knows you'll call. Sooner than later. Dirty sluts like you always do.

 

***************

 

Sitting in the Impala with his brother later, Dean is hardly surprised to find that Sam is in whiney bitch mode. It feels like he's been that way ever since they hit the road. After Dean proposes they dig up Angela's grave and burn her bones, baby bro points out that the girl just died a week ago.

Dean doesn't get why that matters, though. "So?"

"So there's not gonna be bones!" Sam groans. "There's gonna be a—a ripe, rotting body in the coffin."

 _Ugh, what a wimp_ , Dean thinks. The Winchesters have dealt with fresh dead bodies in the morgue before, and far worse, far more stomach-turning things.  _Why the hell should some smelly corpse stop them?_

Sam is still staring at his brother as if this has to be some joke, which is ridiculous.

So Dean calls him out on his bullshit. "Since when are you afraid to get dirty? Huh?" he demands with a judgmental glare as he starts up the car.

He almost cracks a pun about how he had recently walked in on Sam alone in their motel room watching Casa Erotica. The pervert was totally riveted, perched on the edge of the bed. There's no denying just how dirty Sammy is.

But Dean decides against it. He'll usually take any damn excuse to mention porn. Right now, though... he's just not in the mood for cheap jokes. Not when what  _really_  makes Sam so dirty is something else entirely, as both Winchesters know. Something that Dean is determined to ignore.

That night, they head out to the cemetery where Angela is buried, find her gravesite, begin digging, and then... end up looking down into an empty coffin. Which makes this whole case even stranger, for sure. Sam examines inside the casket with his flashlight and spots some distinctive symbols, which he tells Dean he has seen before.

 _That sounds pretty important_ , Dean thinks. Yet at the moment, something else has got his full attention. His cell is ringing, 'Slutty Lindsey' flashing on the screen, though he picks up without even looking. Each vibration of his phone screams dirty whore. He doesn't need to check, to recognize the name or number.

He already knows, of course... it's yours.

 

***************

 

"Dean. You sure we shouldn't go see her together?"

Throwing the dirt-stained shovel over his shoulder, Dean doesn't even bother looking back to face his brother. "Yes, Sammy, I'm sure."

Apparently, Sam doesn't want to take no for an answer. "But she said—she said she was seeing things, Dean. Her dead roommate, probably. And now, after popping open a goddamn empty coffin, we're not even sure what... what kind of  _thing_ Angela is, what we're up against—"

"Well, whatever it is, I'll handle it myself," Dean snaps as he reaches the car, throws his stuff in the back. "I'm dropping your ass off at the motel."

" _Seriously_?" his brother huffs, approaching Baby and standing with his arms crossed. "Look, if that girl is in danger—if you're gonna try and save her—I just figure you could use my help."

"Damn it, Sam,  _I said_  I'll handle it myself," Dean repeats as he opens the driver's side door and slides into his seat. "And that's final."

The younger Winchester rolls his eyes before following orders, reluctantly. "Fine," he mutters once they're both inside and the Impala's engine ignites. That's when Sam acknowledges aloud what he's been trying to deny. "If you're so dead set on seeing her alone, then I guess I should've known—this isn't a 9-1-1 after all."

Dean glances over at him quizzically, pretending not to know what Sam means. "Huh? I mean, yeah, those aren't the three digits she dialed..."

His brother cuts him off. "I should've known it was a booty call."

The driver stares out at the darkness ahead and just clenches his jaw.

Silence like this always pisses Sam off. "You could've just said so, you know."

"And you could've just shut the hell up—God knows I wish you had, but I guess the fuck not," Dean says, trying and failing to focus his thoughts on nothing but this long stretch of road. "Guess we don't always get what we want."

Slinking further down into the passenger seat, Sammy grumbles a bitter response. "Well, you're sure gonna go get some cunt."

Now it's Dean's turn to be fifty shades of pissed off. "What'd I say about shutting the hell up?"

Sam listens this time, for the rest of the ride. Not because he doesn't have more shit to say. He always does. Sam stays shut up because, no matter what, he knows that, in some ways—the ways that hurt the most, for him and his big brother both... Dean Winchester will never change.

 

***************

 

 _Knock knock_.

 _Oh God_ , you think as you leap off the sofa and toward the front door, flinging it open faster than you ever have before. For all you know, it could've been Angela's ghost waiting in the doorway—you've been haunted all night by horrifying visions of your dead roommate—but somehow you just knew it wasn't her. Even just from that knock, you could practically feel the power of your visitor's big fucking cock...

And  _holy fucking fuck_ —your first sight of this guy, when he'd turned up in your apartment in the morning, was the pinnacle of perfection, you'd thought. But apparently not. Because at your doorstep in this moment, he looks even  _more_  unbelievably hot. A living, breathing, literal sex god.

"Hey, sweetheart," he purrs with a devilish smirk, hefting a duffel bag over his shoulder. Probably full of weapons meant to save you from a monster or whatever. But the only weapon you need is his dick, and he knows it, green eyes flashing you a panty-soaking wink. "Looks like you, uh—dropped a little something..."

 _Shit shit shit_ , you panic as his hand slowly lifts up, his thumb reaching to sweep across your spit-glossed bottom lip. Some stupid sound escapes your throat, a non-word caught somewhere between a 'what' and 'huh.'

His smirk widens and darkens as he cups your trembling chin. "Your jaw," he whispers, framing the low-hanging thing between his sturdy fingers. "So tell me, slut... what else d'you wanna drop?"

 _Oh my Goddd—okay, that's it._  As if you weren't already, from the second you first saw him, it's official now that you are his complete and utter bitch.

You've pretty much lost control over your limbs, collapsing in a limp heap in front of him. It's as if every cell in your body obeyed the instant that he spoke the word 'drop.' His firm grip on your chin is the only thing holding you up.

"Mmm... everything, huh? Anything I want?" he murmurs, taking your bodily reaction as the answer to his question. Your confession of just what you want to drop for him.  _Every piece, every part of you, every damn thing_. His fingers dig into your skin as he tightens his hold on your jaw. "That's what I thought."

You are totally dead right now, and yet you have to stay alive, somehow, to worship and to serve this goddamned god.  _Why does he smell so fucking good_ , you wonder as he pulls you closer—the same scent you had caught when he was here before, but now a whole lot stronger...  _leather and liquor, salt and musk, it's just... the stuff of fucking dreams_... 

This guy can read your mind right through your eyes, it seems. "You know I, uh—I was working a job, when you called me. A  _hard_  job. Hard and... rough and... dirty..." he breathes out each word like a sin as you hungrily soak them in. "Got me all... hot and... sweaty..."

 _Hoooly_... your mind is a blur as he takes a few slow steps inside, smoothly reaching behind him to shut the door, letting his heavy bag fall to the floor. Shoves you up against the nearest wall like a two-dollar whore.

"Sweat and dirt all over me..." he goes on, hand sliding from your jawbone to your throat as he leans in to brush his lips against your own. He shrugs out of one of his layers then, casting off his jacket in one swift motion before grasping your neck again, pressing his other hand against the wall above your head. Your wild eyes wander across the damp cloth of his shirt, tracing his chest, then latching onto the dark patch beneath his arm, soaked in his sweat...

The way your mouth is watering, you're almost just a little bit disgusted with yourself. Almost. Not really, though; not even close. You've always been a slut, but seriously never had a sweat kink or a scenting kink or anything like that.  _But with this man? This god? Hell to the fucking yes_. Every inch of him is perfect; every drop of anything that comes out of his body is a gift. It's twisted and it's sick, but— _ugh, just look at him, goddamnit_.

"Hmm," he hums, green eyes agleam to see the pool of drool that gathers on your tongue. "So what d'ya say—should I go take a shower, babe? I mean, the state I'm in... it's fucking  _nasty_..."

Words splutter to your lips, spurred on by desperate need. " _No_ — _fuck_ , no... p-please..."

"Hmm?" he repeats, ever the tease, keeping his tight grip on your throat and angling your head, downward a bit, bringing you close so that your nose touches the smooth skin of his neck, smirking again as you take a deep breath of his dizzying scent. "What is it, bitch? You fucking  _like_  that?"

You groan in pleasure as he pulls you in closer, drowning your senses in the sweet, salty heat of his sweat. " _God_ , yes..."

He snickers and licks his lips. "Name's Dean, but hey..." he says, and you're so lost in bliss that you don't even care, barely even notice, how he just confessed that the name he'd first given— _Alan Stan-something_ —was bullshit. No doubt he's not actually Angela's cousin.  _But so what?_ You honestly couldn't care less, especially when he finishes his sentence. "...call me God all you want. You filthy fucking cunt."

The only sound you can choke out in response is a loud, slutty grunt. You're slobbering all over his neck at this point, licking up every last drop of sweat you can find, feeling it smeared on your face, getting off on the smell and the taste, motherfucking divine. And you're not the slightest bit ashamed of it, being so far gone like this. _In Dean's flawless presence, how could you not have lost your damn mind?_

And he keeps on spouting off deliciously dominant dirty talk, getting your cunt dripping wet. What he says next blows your mind so hard it feels like fucking death. "I'll be your god tonight, if you worship me right."

Maybe those words had felt like fucking death—the sweetest death that you could ever hope to get—and yet in the same breath, at the same time... the slut, the bitch, the filthy fucking  _animal_  inside you comes to life.

You fling your body weight against his so forcefully, all of a sudden, that it very nearly takes Dean by surprise. But not quite. He's still in full control, just the way you both like. Even when he soon ends up on the floor underneath you, he owns you. It'll always be true.

After ripping his shirt off with wild, frantic hands, you pause for just a fraction of a second to take in the pure perfection of this man. You haven't even gotten to his lower half yet—when you do, no doubt you'll drop dead—but already, half-naked, just like this, every inch of him looks too good to resist.  _How the fuck does he even exist?_ You wonder for an instant, but then the solid mass of Dean's dick, through his jeans where you're straddling his hips, fucking throbs and twitches and you can't even think.

Somehow, brainless though you've become, words still rise to your lips. It's just so effortless to worship him and sing his praises. "God, you are  _so_  fucking perfect," you gush, your skin and his on fire everywhere you touch. Dean has both arms above his head, and the devil he is, he's naughtily biting his lip as you gawk at the sight of his hot sweaty pits. They're too flawless to even dare to kiss, and lick, and suck, although you've never needed anything so much. He is everything you'll ever want, and above and beyond. "So fucking hot... so perfect...  _God_..."

Dean's slick pink tongue flicks out to swipe across his lower lip; it's  _ridiculous_  how you feel jealous that he gets a taste of his own luscious flesh. "Mmm. Bet that dirty whore mouth can do more than just talk..." he mocks as he subtly flexes the muscles of his bulging biceps and firm sculpted pecs. "What's stopping you from touching... taking...  _tasting_ what you want? Huh?"

 _Good God_ , you think in stupefied silence— _the way he's taunting you like that, flaunting how damn flawless he is—it's so intimidating it just feels humiliating_...  _he's such a divine fucking king; you're not even worthy of existing in the same universe as him..._

Dean sees straight through all your unspoken thoughts, just as he always does. And he uses them to torture you, of course, knowing it'll get both of you off even more, because...  _well, just because_. "What's the matter, you dumb fucking slut? Come on. Tell me," he teases you brutally. "Too scared to show me? Afraid to get dirty?"

You shake your head, eager hands reaching for him in a reverent caress, palms pressing hard against the smooth planes of his chest. " _No_ , no—God, no, you're just... you're so perfect it hurts... I don't even deserve—"

He cuts off your outpour of pitiful words. "What's your purpose in life, whore?"

 _Fuck_ —your pussy is leaking straight through your shorts, you're pretty sure, soaking both his crotch and yours as you answer. "You are my purpose. My god, my king, my everything. I exist just to worship and serve..."

"Well, you're doing a shit job of that," Dean snaps, suddenly blessing your cheek with a sharp, savage slap. He smirks wickedly as you shudder and gasp. "Worthless bitch. Fucking pathetic."

At this point you're practically squirting all over his denim-sheathed dick. He grinds his hips into your cunt as you groan in arousal and agony, sputtering out an unworthy apology. " _God_ , I—I'm so sorry..."

"Yeah? Then show me," he demands, grabbing a fistful of your hair in one of his dominant hands. "Serve your purpose. I don't even care if you fucking deserve it." 

"God, thank you..." you moan as he pulls your face in, letting you kiss and lick all the sweat off of his gorgeous neck. "You're perfect..."

"Shut up and do your damn job, bitch," Dean orders, shoving your head sideways a bit, toward his shoulder, and then,  _finally_ , straight to heaven, the cradle of his manly essence, the salt-slick patch of skin beneath his arm where your pathetic face belongs. He lets out a cruel laugh as you begin serving and savoring him on the instant, your submissive lips and tongue moving on instinct. "That's it. Lick. Clean my sweaty pits, you filthy little pig."

You're still not even naked, but hearing those words as you drown in his scent, your cunt starts exploding all over again, drenching the denim that strains to contain his big, hard, perfect dick. It goes without saying that feels motherfucking amazing. And yet you're barely even conscious of it, because all you can think is that you want to bury your whole damn existence in this sex god's hot sweaty armpit.  _Ugh, you are so fucking sick. And not ashamed of it. Not one bit._

"Mmm, you like that? The smell of my sweat?" Dean teases while he twines his fingers harder in your messy hair, wielding full control over your head. God knows you don't need him to force you to do this, but it's so much fucking hotter when he does. "Getting off on slurping it all up, you dirty slut?"

" _God_ , yes— _unphhh_..." you mumble, words muffled against his dewy skin. "So f-fucking delicious... I love it...."

"Ugh. You're such a damn disgusting, desperate piece of shit," he snarls as he shifts then to lift up his opposite arm, resting it above his head, forcing your face into the other armpit. "Nasty little cunt squirting all over my dick. Servicing me like this gets you so fucking wet. Doesn't it. Yeah, I bet you would die for just one precious drop of my sweat."

You  _so_  would, and it's painfully obvious. And it feels so damn good to confess, as your loving lips worship his damp, musky skin with a passionate kiss. " _Yes_... G-God, yes..."

Dean laughs again as he manhandles your head, rubbing your snout all over his armpit, listening as you sniff and slurp every sweet inch of it. Groveling in utter submission to him, you're vaguely aware that you keep on grunting and snorting like a pig. His big cock hardens even more against your throbbing clit as you smother your nose in the depths of his pit and flatten your tongue on his skin in a long, hungry lick. " _Shit_ —yeah, that's it. Breathe in all that sweat. Fucking suffocate in it, you good-for-nothing bitch."

 _Holy fuck yes_ —you sure as hell don't want to breathe anything else, anything but his godly scent,  _ever_ again.

Yet his pits aren't the only part of his body all soaked in his sweat. It feels like they are, as you go on worshiping his pits for the next several minutes... but soon enough, as you should've known to expect, Dean needs to address the huge bulge of his dick. You have already come, juices squirting from your greedy cunt, more than once. But he hasn't. And that's a fucking sin, given that this god's pleasure is all you live for. All you want.

In what feels like a split second, he's suddenly on top, has ripped his jeans right off and whipped out his thick, throbbing cock. And Dean is so damn  _hard_  right now that he wastes no time straddling your face and shoving his delicious length straight in your gaping mouth. You watch in rapture as he throws his gorgeous head back for a moment with a feral growl, then looks back down, and instantly starts shooting rope after rope of sweet, creamy come deep down your throat, sweaty crotch smothering your nose, heavy balls smushed into your slobbering chin while his rich musky scent overwhelms your senses all around, as the heat and the weight of his godlike body crushes your head into the ground.

After you've swallowed down every last precious drop of his load, he stays there buried to the hilt in your mouth for longer than you can even count. He's panting and heaving, beautifully bare naked, every flawless inch of his skin fucking dripping with sweat, and in this moment you wish he'd never pull out. But you're happy as fuck when he finally does, because he flashes you a playful smile, takes his sack in one of his hands and rubs his sweaty balls all over your snout. He goes on like that for a little while, and then—knowing just what you crave from him—sits the fuck down. Squashing your face beneath his full body weight. And in this position, his asshole is right over your mouth, so of course your tongue dives right inside and eats him the fuck out. 

The smell of Dean's sack and the taste of his ass are beyond anything you ever could've dreamed.  _God, he's sweaty_ , you think to yourself blissfully. From the second you start to devour his perfect asshole, so salty and savory and sweet, your wet cunt is coming all over again, already. You're not even touching yourself or anything. Your hands are too busy caressing your king, massaging his muscular cheeks, spreading them wider apart for you to eat, pulling him even closer in. As you lovingly sniff and suck him, Dean sneers down at his slutty little pig and reminds you that you're pathetic and disgusting. And it feels  _so_  good, so much better than it should, so fucking hot, being humiliated by a fucking god. You don't ever want it to stop...

Dean jacks himself off as you service his ass and his balls, his thick cock getting rock hard all over again. And when it's time for him to come, he decides he wants to fuck your cunt. Which opens a whole other dimension of heaven. Especially because of how he does it: bends you over like a dog and pounds your pussy from behind, your face pressed to the ground as he positions himself to press one of his feet on your head, stomping down, eventually shifting to shove his foot into your mouth, letting you clean his toes and suck all the sweat out, which of course feels and smells and tastes fucking divine.

 _God_ , you need him to fill up your cunt,  _bad_ —which is exactly why he doesn't. A bitch like you doesn't deserve that. So he pulls out, seconds before his climax, to come in another hole of yours instead: your slutty little ass. You passionately kiss his toes as his come floods your hole and oozes down your crack, blessing you yet again with his heavenly load. You don't know what you did to deserve such a gift, then remind yourself that you obviously don't.  _How could you ever thank him for what he has given? Literal fucking heaven._  As your tongue makes love to his toes, you just wish you could swallow his whole sweaty foot down your dirty whore throat...

Not that you deserve that either. Never will, for as long as you live. No bitch ever deserves a damn thing that Dean gives. But on nights like this, with dirty sluts like you, Dean Winchester gives into all the shit he loves to do, and doesn't care what anyone deserves. Just drowns in his desires. He knows that he can't always get what he wants... but hell, nights like this, he can sure get some cunt. Let himself get worshiped like the god that bitches seem to think he is. Dean himself will never think he's worthy.  _But whatever._ It's easy to pretend that isn't true, or at least that it doesn't matter, when he gets his freak on with bitches like you. 

Bitches who aren't afraid to get dirty.

 

***************

 

Some time later, once the Winchester brothers have figured out that your dead roomie is a zombie, they try to determine whom she's gonna go after next.

The answer is already obvious. Dean knows that you're a dirty slut; it doesn't take a genius to guess that your ass was involved, when Angela found out Matt was cheating, caught him in the act. 

"Well," Dean says, "it takes two to... you know, have hardcore sex."

Sam just looks at his brother and shakes his head. God knows there are tons of ways he could've responded—could've teased Dean about how he would know firsthand, after how hard he must've fucked your slutty cunt. But he doesn't. For once, Sam leaves shit left unsaid, and damn is Dean grateful for that. 

He can just savor the memory himself. The night he spent with you— _all that hot, sweaty, dirty, hardcore sex_... is a night Dean will sure as hell never forget.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this!!! I am so obsessed with that last quote/gif :D
> 
> Always grateful for kudos and comments <3


	27. (S02E05) If I Ran off with You...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 5 ("Simon Said")*
> 
> *In which you are Jo Harvelle (again!)*
> 
> Ever since you first met Dean, spending your whole life by his side is all you've ever dreamed.
> 
> What if that wild dream comes true tonight? If you give into feelings you can't fight, run off with the love of your life? And then what if he fucks you as his filthy little pet—in public, with strangers watching—because you're into that kinky kind of thing, the whole world knowing that you're his...
> 
> It just seems too good to imagine... till it happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii Deanbitches! So this scene is with Jo again — if you'd like a reminder of how the last one went, feel free to revisit Chapter 24 :)
> 
> When I write Dean/Jo scenes, they tend to turn out super long for some reason... I really hadn't intended this but sometimes the characters go in their own directions! This scene has some filthy sex and actually explores a new kink (public humiliation/exhibitionism), but there are also non-smutty parts that indulge in fluff and feelings... I know a lot of you are reading mostly for the sex, so I hope this chapter satisfies your fix (and am sorry if it doesn't) — I'll try to include more smut in the next :P

 

***Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 5 ("Simon Said")***

***In which you are Jo Harvelle (again!)***

 

 

He had ruined your life from the moment you met him. Yet all you want is to get ruined again.  _And again and again._  Ever since your time with Dean came to an end—those fifty-one hours, the best of your life—ever since you parted ways, you've just been going through the motions of existence, day by day, carrying on and getting by. But all the while you've felt...  _dead_. Like a big gaping hole. Like a bullet's been shot through your head, and your heart and your soul. Living without him doesn't feel like living at all.

You dream about him. A whole fucking lot. Because how could you not. Fantasize all the time about what it would be like, to spend all your life by his side, as his slut, as his pet, as whatever the fuck you can get. Just the damn thought of Dean gets you so soaking wet. Some nights, when you're in the mood to be dumb, you even dare to dream about how it would feel to have him love you back.  _As if such a sad piece of trash could ever deserve that_. Those are the dreams that hurt the worst. But you're twisted and sick, so you love how it hurts. 

Especially when you remember that Dean was turned on by your desperately one-sided love for him, just as turned on as you were, during those filthy fifty-one hours that you'd spent together. He'd let himself receive it, all of it, all the love he didn't think he was worth. You knew better; you’ve always known just how much he deserves.  _The whole goddamned world._  You couldn't give him that, which made you fifty shades of sad, but you could give him everything you had, and more. And so you did. For more than two days straight, there on that seedy motel bed. And it got you so wet, and it got him so hard, the way you gave yourself to him with all your heart...

Tonight, though, you're trying as hard as you can not to think about that. You're sure it won't work, but you've still gotta try. Something about tonight, for the first time since you and Dean last said goodbye, just feels...  _different_ somehow. Doing what you do best in the roadhouse—serving up beer nuts and booze to wayward losers, hustling them out of cash by beating them at pool, and at your favorite shooter arcade game—you dare to imagine that maybe, just maybe, tonight is when your life might start up again. You're not sure why you're feeling that way. No good reason.

But then you turn toward the front door. And then...  _then_  you know why.

It's not because this is the night you can finally try to get Dean Fucking Winchester off your mind, out of your life. Of course it isn't. It's because he's back in it. Right this fucking minute.

To make matters worse, the green-eyed bastard looks even better than you remember. It's a wonder that the badass bitch inside you manages to hold her shit together. He's here with his brother, of course; Dean almost runs into you as the two of them walk in. You wish he did, given how desperate you've been for the touch of his skin...

 _Ugh, shit_. He knows it, and that emerald gaze of his is burning up your every nerve ending. It's all you can do not to fall at his feet and beg Dean to repeat those incredible fifty-one hours all over again. But you two had agreed that, the next time you'd meet, you were gonna pretend that whole session of hot kinky sex never happened. Pretending is harder than you had imagined. Yet somehow you manage. Your heart's thumping out of your chest, panties all dripping wet, but you just shrug it off. Flashing him a friendly smile that you hope doesn't betray your filthy thoughts. "Just can't stay away, huh?"

 _If Dean is feeling a damn thing, he hides it well_ , you think. Though then again, you're sure he isn't feeling anything.  _Why should he? You're nothing to him._

It's obvious when he replies. "Yeah, looks like," he says. Chill as a fucking cucumber. Replying like you're just another number on his long list of sexual conquests. As if your time together isn't something he would even bother to remember. Which kind of hurts. The pain's a major turn-on, though. "How you doin', Jo?"

The younger Winchester butts in then, before you can even say anything, asking where Ash is. You tell him the dude's in the back room, and Sam brushes past you.  _What the hell? Isn't Dean the one who's supposed to be surly and rude?_

"And I'm fine..." you grumble. No one cares that it's a lie.

Dean explains that he and Sam are 'kind of on a bit of a timetable.' Whatever that means. He pauses and looks down for a second, visibly uncomfortable, and then brushes past you himself. You let out a sad little sigh, unable to resist looking over your shoulder as he moves behind you. He wasn't rude about it, as his kid brother had been. Just... dismissive. As if he would rather you just not exist. You don't doubt it. Your massive crush on him looms like an awkward, ugly elephant in the room whenever you're around him. It's pathetic and disgusting.  _If only you could cut it off, fight all these fucking life-ruining feelings, you would have, long before they began.._

But you couldn't then, and sure as hell can't now. All you can think is how badly you need Dean to fuck your damn brains out. Again and again. You have no idea how, but you are gonna make it happen. Or die trying.  _God knows you would get off on dying like that_ , you think. You would get off on doing anything— _any_  goddamn thing... for him.

 

***************

 

When Dean's fine ass is seated at the bar later that evening, green eyes staring at the bottom of the nearly empty beer glass in his hand... you figure it's your chance. You're not above stooping low, playing desperate and dropping cheap hints, groveling and begging just to get his dick back in your pants. It's obvious that it's the only way you can.

You fiddle with the jukebox for a second. Pick an REO Speedwagon tune that you're certain will get his attention. Dean had admitted to you once—back when the two of you'd gone for a walk and talked each other up, before your hardcore fuck—that he has a few guilty pleasure songs. Crap music that he knows he shouldn't like, but he just does.  _Bon Jovi rocks on occasion_ , he'd said. And other stuff. Sappy ballads like "All Out of Love." You had laughed your ass off, until Dean had threatened to shut you up, good and rough—which sounded like pure heaven, sure as hell wasn't about to make you stop.

In any event, the song that you've just chosen wasn't among the guilty favorites that he'd mentioned. Tonight, though, you're determined to make it one of them.

Dean looks up from his drink as soon as the music starts playing. He looks constipated or something. The first few chords of this song are already oozing romance and emotion, which is not the kind of shit for which his system is equipped; he'd sooner die than even try to process it. Your back is turned to him, but you can sense the adorably precious expression on his perfect face in this moment, without even looking. The crease of his brows, the curl of his lips...  _God, constipation never looked so hot on anyone_ , you think.

You pretend to just be tending to some business, clearing tables, picking up some empty cups to place them on a tray, which you bring over to the bar, as an excuse just to get closer to the reason for your beating, bleeding heart. Taking a pause, pursing your lips, you dare to look at him then, though you know that doing so will break it right apart.

And it sure fucking does. Dean is looking at you, too, as he shifts his grip on what's left of his drink. There isn't much. You honestly are not sure if the glimmer in his gaze is saying something innocent like _hey little sister pour me another_ , or more along the lines of  _on your knees and suck my dick you dirty little slut_.

Damn do you hope it's the second. You know it's not, but just the thought of it is flooding up your cunt. In a failed attempt to hide that, you put on your sassy badass pants and speak up. "What?"

The beautiful arch of his brows is downright dripping with judgment. "REO Speedwagon?"

In the background, the song plays on. The lyrics have begun. And it's no accident the way they fit the scene—for you at least, if not for Dean. ' _I can't fight this feeling any longer... And yet I'm still afraid to let it flow_...'

"Damn right REO," you respond, taking a few steps toward him and trying to come off as confident. "Kevin Cronin sings it from the heart."

"He sings it from the hair," Dean corrects you, quirking up his features in a playful smirk that's  _way_  too fucking cute. "There's a difference."

You could try to fight him on this, but you know that it'd be useless. Biting your tongue, you glance over your shoulder at your mom, to make sure she's out of earshot. So that you can talk to Dean about the case that he and Sam are working on. Offer to help out with the hunt. It's not about the job itself—that isn't  _really_  what you want. But it's a reason to be with him, if he'll let you come along.

Of course, he won't. Says it's a 'family thing' that the Winchesters have to handle on their own.  _He doesn't fucking want you, Jo_ , you tell yourself as you look down; _you should've known._ His rejection is always so hard to swallow. But you'll keep on coming back for more, a sucker for the torture. Holding on to some sad hope that he might change his mind, at any given time— _and let you swallow something even... harder..._

"Besides," Dean continues, "if I ran off with you..."

You meet his gaze, just then, because you're stupid, blushing like a giddy idiot just at the sound of those six words he'd said. Running off with Dean, leaving your lives behind to fuck each other every day and night... is everything you've ever dreamed.  _How could he even say something like that? No matter what he means by it—surely nothing at all—still, doesn't he know it'll fuck you up real bad?_

If he knows, he doesn't care, you guess. He blinks his pretty eyes and finishes his sentence. "...I think your mother might kill me."

Ellen heard that, or picked up on it with some kind of maternal sixth sense, or whatever. She scowls quizzically at him from the other end of the bar. He flashes her a winning grin, boyish and innocent, one that's more than enough to charm the panties off of anyone or warm even the coldest woman's heart. Your mom can be a goddamn ice queen, but you'd bet that even she's begun to melt beneath the blinding heat of Dean. 

Nonetheless, Ellen Harvelle is still a badass bitch—you like to think that you got that from her—and one hell of a scary character. Now's as good a time as any to dish up your own serving of sass, you figure, to tease Dean about being scared out of his ass. "You're afraid of my mother?"

He won't even try to deny it, bright grin twinged with a tight grimace of discomfort. "I think so," he mutters.

That's when Sam, still in rude mode, decides to abruptly approach. "We have a match. We gotta go."

You don't even have time to roll your eyes and groan. Next thing you know, Dean's getting up to hit the road. "All right, Jo..."

Of course he'll say something about seeing you later. Every time you watch him leave, though... you're afraid he won't. Terrified. That Dean won't ever see you again, won't strut his fine ass back into your sorry life. Scares you to death every damn time. 

Luckily in this moment, he doesn't seem to notice, since he doesn't seem to care that you exist. He passes you by, like a ship in the night, and your eyes and entire soul follow, wherever he goes. Then he's out the door, like he was never here. Leaving you behind to swallow all your pride, to wallow in your heartbroken fear. The Speedwagon lyrics play on—' _you give my life direction... you make everything so clear_...'

Dean gives your life direction, yes. He  _is_ your life's direction. And yet he won't let you follow him. Won't let you run away with him to spend your days worshiping his perfection. _So how are you supposed to live, like this? Unable to embrace the fucking reason you exist? Everything is supposed to be clear—but it's_ not _, damn it. Nothing is._

You shut off the jukebox, once Dean is gone. Sick of the sound of those dumb fucking lyrics.  _They'e absolute bullshit_ , you think. Sure, maybe it's true that you can't fight this feeling, but... _fuck feelings. Fuck everything._

Fuck every damn thing, if you can't fuck him.

 

***************

 

Dean Winchester is fucking terrified.

It's not a feeling that he likes. Feels like being naked in a pile of snakes on a turbulent flight. He's been freaked out for so long about this whole damn psychic thing that Sam's got going on, but as if that's not bad enough, now Dean's got something even freakier to be afraid of. Something that he's been trying to deny, to fight, for quite some time—though he's not sure if he still can, since seeing you again tonight. Something that's eating him alive, from the inside.  _Something that feels a lot like..._

Dean quickly cuts off his own train of thought, tightening his grip on the wheel as he keeps on driving away from the roadhouse—from you—and decides to start humming. Metallica or something. Whatever the hell will calm him down. He hums out the first tune that comes to mind; it's not Metallica, not quite. And when the humming turns to singing, lyrics slipping out...  _that's_ when he realizes what song this is. 

 _Ugh, shit_. But he's in too deep to quit, so he just runs with it. "And even as I wander, I'm keeping you in sight... you're a candle in the window on a cold, dark winter's night..."

From the passenger side, Sammy shoots him some serious side-eye.

Dean doesn't stop. He's getting to the best part, singing from the heart. "And I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might..."

"You're kidding, right?"

His voice trails off as he looks over at his brother, then back out onto the road. He can't blame Sam for having that reaction, though; since when would Dean Winchester ever rock out to some sappy old love song by REO? He wishes he were kidding, wishes all of this were just some stupid joke.  _But no. It's not a joke—not even close._  It's all too real, whatever it is that he feels, for pretty little Jo. He just can't—' _can't fight this feeling_ '... every word of those lyrics hits home. 

That's what scares him the most.

 

***************

 

Some days later, the Winchesters have finished their business in Oklahoma and what Dean needs right now is a really,  _really_ damn good blowjob.  _This is all just too much_ , he thinks, while pointlessly arguing about demon crap with his brother. Whatever is happening with Sam, and the... the  _others_ , these strangers who also have freak superpowers—and happen to be scattered all over the country, apparently—it's just... Dean doesn't want to deal with this shit. Any of it. Just wants to drown his issues in the way that he knows best: getting his dick wet with a dirty little bitch.

But not just  _any_ bitch, if he's honest.  _There's just one that he wants more than all the rest..._

His cell phone is ringing; his heart skips a beat, when he looks at the screen. 'Harvelle' is the last name he'd ever expected to see— _Ellen_ Harvelle, no less. His heart had been racing with butterflies at first, when he had thought the number might be yours, but now it's just pounding with nerves.  _What could this woman possibly be calling for?_ He almost wonders if her mommy-senses may have caught his naughty urges toward her daughter, somehow picked up on Dean's fantasies about fucking the shit out of her...

As it turns out, thank fucking goodness, Ellen has called to confront the Winchesters about something else. It's not something she wants to say over the phone; she tells them to head back to the roadhouse so they can discuss it in person. Dean doesn't even want to think about what'll happen if they don't. The woman scares him more than almost anyone. The only thing that scares him more is seeing you again.

Luckily for his own sanity, Ellen sends you to fetch a case of beer, as soon as he and Sam walk in. Clearly she doesn't want your ass around to listen in on this. Dean tries not to notice how cute your ass looks as you flounce away, rocking those tight jeans like nobody's business, hips swaying with sass as you grumble in protest.

Once you're gone, your mom demands to hear every detail about the hunt that Dean and Sam were on. _This is war_ , she says—not just the Winchesters' war. It's bigger than them, bigger than 'just kind of a family thing,' as Dean calls it; the whole network of hunters had better be in this together. No more secrets. Dean shudders to think how pissed Ellen would be if she discovered the  _real_ secrets he and Jo are keeping from her... but whatever.

By the time the brothers have explained everything, you're back in the room again. Your mother is still processing how bad the situation really is. You can already tell she's thinking that they're gonna need some heavy-duty drinks to get through all of this. She pauses for a second, then acknowledges your presence.

"Jo, honey?" she says. "You'd better break out the whiskey instead."

 

***************

 

It's 2 A.M. when Dean swears to himself he won't ever drink whiskey again.

Two minutes after that, he reaches for the bottle by his bed.

There are barely two drops left, which ain't enough.  _Never enough_. He knows that liquor isn't what he really needs, but it's so much safer than going after what he really does. The Winchesters had taken Ellen up on her offer to stay the night, in this spare bedroom in the back, but Dean realizes now that he should never have agreed to that. Sleeping under the same roof as you—trying and failing to—feels like running a goddamn marathon while suffering a heart attack. 

He's already jerked off twice and wasted half a box of tissues trying to mop up his own mess. He always comes what seems like gallons when he's all pent up like this. Could go at it again, but the box by his bedside hadn't been full to begin with, so he doubts there are even enough tissues left. Besides, Sammy would probably hear him the whole time, pretending to be sleeping but really just silently jizzing his pants, which is always awkward and unpleasant. Dean has no clue what the hell he should do.  _Maybe just hit the can_ , he thinks— _take a piss and then jack off into the toilet?_ That's never been his favorite, but  _damn_ is he desperate...

Yet he knows that won't cut it. He would just see your face when he stares at the toilet. Which is all kinds of sick, but he knows that kind of kink is just your thing, knows how much you enjoy it. You're both more than a little twisted—hell, that's part of why the two of you together are so painfully perfect. 

He just...  _he needs you_ , damn it. And it's worse because he knows you need him, too. He'll never understand the way you feel, head over heels, but even more so than before, it's obvious that you still do. Written all over you.  _It's a love song that he's longing to write, by your side, sing along to all day and all night... ugh_ , he hates this sappy side of him that you seem to ignite. But it's a feeling that he just can't fucking fight.

Climbing out of bed, quietly so as not to wake Sammy, Dean cracks open the door and slips into the hallway's dim light. He wonders where your room is. Wonders if Ellen has some kind of high-security alarm system set up on it, to keep you honest. He wouldn't be surprised if she did. If he tried to sneak inside, surely your mother would be ready with a machete to hack off his head.  _Both of his heads._  He'd be dickless  _and_ dead—but he figures it'd be worth it, if he got to spend so much as just a fraction of a second in your bed.

He doesn't have to go on looking for your room for long at all. Because just then, he hears something familiar echoing from down the hall. Beckoning him toward the source, like a sweet siren's call...

Two sounds, really. One is REO Speedwagon. The same song you had played before he left, the one that Dean himself had sung. And the other is... well, even from this distance, through the closed door, he can tell: it's the soundtrack of you moaning out his name over and over again as you play with your soaking wet cunt.

 _Fuck_  does that get him hard. Feels like all the blood rushing through his veins drops to his cock, gushing down from his fast-beating heart. He walks up to your door, rests his palm against it, for a second, and takes a deep breath, before knocking, and then...

Then the door swings open.

Dean didn't have to make a sound, for you to sense his presence in this moment. He blinks in the soft glow of light shining out of your room, forming a halo behind you, casting you as the sun, on this night, bright and golden. His eyes are wide like it's the first time he's woken. Lips parted and trembling with all the love he's left unspoken.

Whereas on your end... you figure he's just here to ruin you again, get himself off on your desperate heart getting broken. And if that's what he wants, then you'll sure as hell give it to him.  _Any damn thing._

You're wearing nothing but Dean's old flannel, unbuttoned down the middle. The one you'd borrowed from him after those two days at the motel. It's what you always wear to touch yourself—it's all that you've had left of him, since then, a worn out shirt with fading traces of his smell. The pure essence of Dean, the manly, musky scent that fills your every dream... sweet as heaven and hot as hell...  

In any event—it's weird that your face has captured all his focus, you muse. With this oversized shirt all unbuttoned, your cleavage and cunt are sort of in full view. But his gaze isn't straying at all. He's just looking at...  _you_.

You bite your lip and stare blankly back up at him. Your god, your king. It's his place to speak first, of course.  _Just say the word, sir. I'm all yours..._

"...hey," Dean finally says, evergreen gaze tracing every last inch of your face. It feels as if he's making promises that you know he can't keep. His voice is thick with whiskey when he speaks. "I can't... can't sleep."

You quirk your brows and cross your arms. He's acting almost  _awkward_ , for some reason you can't fathom. By now he should've charged into your room and had you on your knees in front of him. Apparently he isn't jumping into dirty dom mode right away, which gives you room to play. He looks a little... _soft_ —although you're sure he's hard where he's supposed to be—and it's so fucking precious it's driving you crazy. But that softness does make it easier for you to act sassy and tough. "So what? Want me to snuggle you and sing a lullaby, you big old baby?"

 _Good God, that smile on his flawless face_... he's downright beaming, and you wonder for a second if you're dreaming. "That sounds sweet, actually," Dean murmurs, gesturing toward the embarrassing music you've got playing. "Can you, uh... sing it from the hair, maybe?"

A similar smile spreads over your own features, at his playful reference to your earlier banter about the band's big-haired lead singer. The smile spreads further and melts like fucking butter as he reaches through the doorway, gently strokes your rosy cheek, caressing the hair resting there, brushing it away from your face as it falls loosely over his fingers.

"My  _God_ , you're pretty," he effuses, almost reverently. "You know, Jo—you know why I can't sleep? Ever since you put that rifle on me?"

Your breathing catches in your throat.  _Ever since... what? The moment you first met? Does he mean..._

His thumb sweeps down the blush of your cheek. "It's 'cause when I try, when I close my eyes, you're... you're the only thing I see."

" _Dean_..." you sigh as he leans in, your grip on sanity quickly diminishing as you soak in the sweetness of his words, the heat that's seeping through his skin. Fighting your every instinct, you pull slightly away just then. This... this just isn't  _him_. It can't be. He isn't supposed to treasure and respect you this much.  _Is he?_  "Dean, you're— _ugh_ , you're drunk..."

His lip curves up into a smirk, shoulders rising and falling in a subtle shrug. "Little bit. But not enough for you to doubt this," he professes, his liquor-laced breath fanning over your lips. "Ain't just the whiskey talking. Promise."

Some part of you can tell he's being honest. Yes, he's had a lot to drink, but not so much that he can't get behind the wheel. Which means he's still sober enough to know just how he feels.  _But that... that just doesn't make sense._ The thought of him seeing you in this way, like something special, something precious, it's just... crazy.

Not as crazy as the words that you hear next. Whispered into your ear, almost too hushed to hear, yet still they hit you loud and clear. "Run away with me."

" _What?_ " you gasp, your heart leaping out of your chest, even just at the thought.

"I mean it, Jo," he vows, one arm wrapping around your waist to keep you from falling the fuck down. "Let's just—let's hit the road."

 _He's gone insane. He's literally gone insane_ , you think. You should be terrified... but no. For reasons you won't ever understand, you've never felt more safe, more anchored by this heart of yours that Dean holds in his hands, pumping undying love for him throughout your veins. Forever. "You out of your mind, Winchester?" you ask, grasping the muscles of his back, holding on for dear life as you gaze up into his gorgeous eyes, seeing straight through to his beautiful soul. "Where would we even go...?"

Dean's sturdy shoulders lift and sink in a lighthearted shrug again. The tide that you will always ride, carrying your body with the motion as you cling to him. "I dunno," he admits, shifting to take one of your hands in his, bringing your forefinger up to his lips in a passionate kiss. He twirls his tongue around the tip to taste the juices that still linger on your skin from having touched yourself to him. And  _God_ , he's already getting you dripping wet down there all over again. Fucking soaked. He smirks because he knows. "Wherever. Does it matter?"

Both of you already know the answer. It still feels like heaven when you say it, though. "Hell no."

 

***************

 

"We really doing this?"

You still can't quite believe it, settling into the passenger seat as Dean turns the keys in the ignition, making the Impala come alive beneath his feet. He's turning you on even more than Baby. And you're still wearing nothing but his shirt; the worn cloth scrunches up behind you as you scoot in further, dripping wetness bare against the smooth, sleek leather. You're well aware that you're ruining the upholstery. Hope he'll punish you for that, eventually.

But the first thing that Dean does is answer the question you'd asked.  _Are you two really doing this...?_ He throws you a smirk and a wink as he steps on the gas. "Hell yes, gorgeous," he says, all the stars in your universe falling in place when he does. One of his hands steady on the wheel, the other brushes over your cheek in a tender caress... which quickly shifts into a dominant grip on your head.  _Just what you really needed._ "Now get over here and suck it."

And at that, on the instant, your dirty whore face and desperate filthy hands are all over his dick, pulling the luscious length free from his pants. Your eyes roll back in bliss when the leaking pink head of Dean's cock finally touches your worshipful lips. It's  _ridiculous_  how much you'd missed this. Overcome with the urge to be of complete service, to suck and to swallow, but also to kiss and to lick and to taste every inch... somehow it seems you end up doing all of that at once. You pop your lips off of his cock just to sing his praises and to swear your eternal devotion, every several seconds. " _God_ , you are perfect—so fucking delicious... I live for this... I love you, sir...  _so_  fucking much..."

"Yeah? Then show it, slut," he grunts, hand trailing down the steep arch of your spine and toward your aching cunt. His fingers all but drown inside you when he feels how wet you are. The meat in your mouth is already rock hard, but it feels even harder now as he starts toying with your clit, then plunging knuckles deep into your dripping slit. He moans and curses in sync with each sensitive nerve that he hits. "Ughh, holy  _shit_..."

The waves of euphoria coursing all over your body right now are unreal. To thank your perfect master for how fucking good that feels, you force your head as far down on his crotch as it can go, his massive dick invading your entire throat, making you choke as his dizzying scent fills your nose, blowing him better than he's ever been blown. With the head of his cock shoving past your gullet, throbbing and wet, you let all your muscles there tighten, again and again, squeezing around every sweet inch of him as you swallow. His hips keep bucking upward, shoving his dick deeper into your overstretched lips... and then before you know it, he's coming, feeding you thick white ropes of heaven to fucking devour, and you can just picture him throwing his beautiful head back in bliss. It fulfills your entire life's purpose to know that you can give Dean Winchester pleasure like this. You could literally die happy, this very moment, devoting your face, your body and your whole damn existence, your heart and your soul, to this god of a man in submission and service...

You're so lost in subspace just then that, when the car bumps and jerks suddenly, veering off of the road just a bit, you barely even notice.

"Son of a—" Dean hisses as he spastically hits the brakes. But it's too late. You're both perfectly safe, thankfully, but... well, Baby is stuck. Wheels mired in mud, caught in a very unfortunate roadside rut.

As you finally slip his delicious cock out of your lips, tongue struggling not to miss any of his juices as they drip, you return to your senses, somewhat, gazing up into his flawless face with a series of blinks. "Um... did you just drive us into a ditch?"

"Shut up, bitch," he groans, still coming down from the high, while you absentmindedly lick off the stray drops of come that have splattered on his meaty balls and his muscular thighs. He lets you keep that up for a few minutes, fondly stroking your head. "So much for running off, I guess. How far'd we even get...?"

"Doesn't matter," you mumble hungrily into his hot, sweaty skin. "When can I blow you again?"

Dean lets out a breathy little chuckle, looking out into the darkness ahead through the windshield. "Hey—looks like there's a truck stop up the road. Maybe we could, um... get help or something, you know?"

He's clearly kind of reluctant about the idea, which is your cue to slip into teasing mode. "Hmm, I dunno... big strong Dean Fucking Winchester asking for help? From someone else?"

The hand that's stroking your head shifts then to deal your cheek a sudden slap. You really weren't expecting that, so it feels even more amazing than it usually does. You gasp with a familiar pang of both pleasure and pain at his powerful touch. "Didn't I tell you to shut the hell up? You good-for-nothing slut?"

And then— _oh God, oh fuck_ —next thing you know, he's flinging the car door open, stepping out as he grabs a fistful of your damp, messy hair and drags you like a dog along with him.

" _Down_ ," he orders, violently letting go of your skull as you tumble clumsily out of the door. He reaches down again only to yank his shirt off of your shoulders. "On the fucking ground. Wanna see you crawling naked on all fours. Know that's where you belong. Don't you, whore."

 _Yes. Yes. Yes._ This was one of the most intense kinks you and Dean had explored, in your first time together. Of course he'd remember. You'd begged him to let you crawl down at his feet, stark naked down the side of the road, as his pet, for the whole world to see. He'd stopped as soon as some dudes in a passing car had whistled and thrown trash at you... but honestly, even then, you had wished he would continue. And he knew. He hadn't been willing to, back then, but now— _maybe now that he's admitted that you mean something to him, beyond the sex_... maybe now he feels better about all of this. Maybe there's more that he'll allow himself to do. 

You sure fucking hope so, as you fall onto your hands and knees on the rough gravel road. Groveling like a mutt at his godly feet. "Yes, Master..."

Dean has tucked his dick away and buttoned up his jeans, for his own decency, but he's taken his belt out of the loops. As you begin to crawl, not fast enough at all, the kinky bastard doesn't hesitate to use it as a whip lashing against you. "Faster."

You wince in pleasure at the sting of the leather and struggle to follow his orders. "I'm sorry, sir..."

"Worthless piece of shit," he mutters, angling your face back for a second just to spit on it, then shoving it back downward forcefully. "Can't even keep up with me. Know what I think you need?"

The sound of his footsteps heads back toward the car, just a few yards behind you by now, and at the momentary feeling of abandonment your heart begins to pound. You can't imagine anything more torturous than this. You should've known that leaving you behind here isn't what he has in mind... but every time he leaves, no matter what, you're fucking terrified.  _Every damn time._

You hear the trunk open and shut; then Dean is back, as if he never left. And all is right in all the world again. Especially when you see that he's hefting a coil of rope in his hand...

What you don't expect, just then, is the way that he squats down right next to you, tilting your head up toward him and dropping an indulgent kiss on your forehead. The softness of his lips, the sweetness of the kiss, it feels so good it fucking  _hurts_. "Hey, sweetheart—you, uh... sure that you don't wanna set a safeword?"

 _...Ugh. Damn straight you're sure. The stupid motherfucker should've known better._ You scowl up at him in displeasure. "Thanks for going soft and screwing up by subspace, bastard."

His scowl is even darker than yours. "Jo. I'm serious."

"So am I, you big beautiful idiot," you retort, shifting to sit back on your heels, because it seems hard to be taken seriously when you're crouched down on all fours. Feels slightly better when you kneel. "With you I  _literally_  have no limits. We've been through this—"

Dean clenches his jaw and scratches his head. "Yeah, but last time was, uh... different."

"No it wasn't," you object. You know what he means, but he's not supposed to talk about it. Not like this, at least. You remind yourself that he is probably pretty new to the whole romance and emotion business. Even so, you're not above giving him shit for it. "You know, you really suck at this whole having feelings thing."

His plump pink lips lift in a little laugh, silent and sad. "Tell me something I don't know," he huffs, looking out on the long empty road, then back down at you where you're kneeling, apparently upset, though you're really far too deep in love to be mad.  _You look so fucking precious like that_ , he thinks, tenderly patting your head. "Fine. Be that way. I just—I just want to make sure you feel safe. Always. I don't want you to ever forget what I said, 'cause I  _swear_  Jo, I meant..."

"Would you just cut the crap and tie that goddamn leash around my neck?" you interrupt him then, which is probably the last thing that either of you would expect.  _But your cunt is so fucking wet, damn it._  You don't want sappy feelings and bullshit to get in the way of your hot kinky sex. The slut inside you desperately needs your dom to finish what he started... "I want you to parade me to that truck stop as your filthy fucking pet."

Dean blinks, then licks his lip and cocks his head, descending into devilish darkness. The version of your lover that you love best. "All right, then—let's get started," he snarls as he slowly uncoils the rope in his fist. "Bitch, don't say you didn't ask for this."

Unable to handle how fucking  _hot_ he sounds, you wag your tongue and drool onto the ground, as he reaches down, dragging the ragged rope against the soft skin of your throat, before encircling it around. Tying a collar tight against your breathless neck.

Once the leash has been set, he hauls you behind him like his pet as he strides on ahead. "Don't say you didn't  _beg_."

 _Oh God_ , you think,  _that's the last thing you'd ever say. You live to serve him in this way_...

Dean's rugged boots plod steadily in front of you. He lets you stop to kiss them every so often, to clean them with your desperate tongue, before he gives your leash a savage tug and trudges through the roadside mud to get them all dirty again. You're well aware that your mouth and your snout must be smothered in sloppy brown scum. It's so fucking disgusting. Yet somehow it's not, when you're cleaning it off of your master, your king. The sweet sensation of your utter subjugation stings like heaven. Every damn thing that he does is hot enough to make you come.

You realize soon that you're approaching the truck stop. Before the faces of strangers come into view, before anyone else can catch a glimpse of you, Dean takes a heavy pause. You may not have a safeword, but that doesn't keep him from worrying whether it's safe to go further. He props his forefinger under your chin, gently tilting your head to look up at him. "You sure?"

It's taking all of your self-restraint not to kiss that gorgeous finger, as it cradles your face. _.._  but instead you hold your head in place, meeting his gaze. You know Dean needs that now, to feel just how certain you are about your dirtiest desires. Sometimes even a mighty god needs to be reassured. "Yes, sir. I want the world to know I'm yours. The whole damn world."

He bites his lip and bobs his head in a slow nod, making the most out of this heartfelt pause. Then he ruffles his hand through your hair before forcing your head back downward like a dog. Addressing his pet in a masterful snarl. "Good girl."

Dean leads you up to the truck stop, strutting right through the front entrance of the 24-hour diner, a sorry excuse for a restaurant. It's grimy and gross, grease all over the walls and the floor. Even worse are the customers: big bearded losers, a couple of middle-aged drifters, a waitress who you're pretty sure is the neighborhood whore. The roadhouse that you run with your mother is no five-star establishment, sure—but  _this_ dumpster? This cheap booze and burger joint looks like the set of some low-budget porn. 

Which is exactly what the slut in you was hoping for. You want Dean to degrade you in this kind of place, a place built to take every scrap of dignity away. With all these pervs watching, you want him to fuck you, to use you as his little slave, piss all over your face...

As you walk in, the trucker seated closest to the front door is the first stranger who notices. "Well, well... what's this?"

Your master smirks and gives your makeshift leash a sharp jerk. "What's it look like?"

"Like the hottest shit I've ever seen in my life," the whore standing across the room butts in, sashaying over toward him. "A fucking flawless Adonis who knows how to treat a filthy little bitch..."

Dean gives her a quick once-over, and you cannot help but wonder if he wants to fuck her.  _She looks like utter trash, and she is far from gorgeous, but since when does Dean Sex-Machine Winchester ever turn down an easy piece of ass?_  You're terrified all of a sudden that he'll dump you on the curb and run away with her...

You feel a little better when he huffs out a dismissive snicker, in response to how she had called you a filthy little bitch. "Takes one to know one, doesn't it."

"Mmm, sure does," she purrs, reaching to squeeze the bulging muscle of his shoulder. "You know, sir... I'd trade places with her right this minute."

"Oh, you fucking wish," he scoffs, brushing past her, blowing her off before she even gets to touch this godlike body that she wants so much. Dean gestures down at you, giving your rope a forceful tug. "Servicing me is  _her_  privilege. Your skanky ass ain't getting any of this."

Your desperate heart swells up with joy to hear it.  _Yes—you are his, in a way that no other girl is._ This is  _your_  purpose.  _Your_  privilege. Crawling at his feet, you kiss the dirty denim at your master's ankles as he strides toward an empty table, then leans back to perch his perfect ass against the edge. The whore huffs out a bitter sigh of indignation as she watches.

Dean lets out a low laugh, at that, mocking her for the fact that she can't tear her eyes from the sight taking place before her. Just like everyone else in the room, she's too goddamned turned on. "Jealous?" he wickedly taunts. "Look on all you want. Gawk at her like the dog that she is while she begs for my cock. Humiliation gets her off, this fucking kinky little cunt."

Seething green with envy, she apparently ain't one to back down easy. "You know, sir—I  _am_ the waitress. I should get to serve you, too. It's what I do..."

"You can shut up and watch. Or else fuck the fuck off," he snaps, glaring at her before looking back down at your face as you worship his boots. 

It's obvious which of those options this cheap truck stop trollop is going to choose.

"As for the rest of you—well, there is something you could do for us," Dean says, glancing around the room at all the strangers hypnotized by his aura of dominance, the power and perfection that he radiates from head to toe. "See, our car got stuck in a ditch down the road. Any of you upstanding folks wanna pitch in and help us out with that if we, uh... give you all a show?"

Another trucker from a nearby table coughs and clears his throat. "Well, Ken doll—swear I'm straight as an arrow... but I'd do any fucking thing to see just what you're packing. See how well you use it on that dirty bitch you're dragging. Hell, I'd sell my goddamn soul."

"Same here. No homo," one of his buddies chimes in. "But dude, you're motherfucking  _beautiful_."

"Ugh—stow your ovaries, bro. He already knows," says the ugliest trucker, who happens to have the world's creepiest voice. "The answer is yes, pretty boy. Start the show. We all wanna see you destroy your filthy little fucktoy."

The way Dean's grip tenses around your leash, you can tell he doesn't like this sleazy douche. Neither do you, obviously. But this is just what you both came for—whether or not you like your audience doesn't matter. If anything, the more twisted they are... the better. He reaches down to trace his fingertips across your dirt-stained lips. "Hmm. That sound good, you pathetic piece of shit? Wanna show all these strangers just how much you love my dick?"

You nod desperately, your own drool dribbling down your chin, soon mixed with his as Dean leans down toward your open mouth and spits. Your slick cunt is exposed to everyone else in the room, soaking wet at the sound of them laughing.

"You honestly think I would fuck that mouth, all muddied up like this, from cleaning off my boots? Just look at you," he sneers, dishing out his most brutal abuse. Pure music to your ears. "You're lower than a dog, bitch. You look like a goddamn pig. Fucking  _disgusting_."

All you can think in this moment is that you're in literal heaven...

"Gonna have to get you all washed up, before this dick goes anywhere near those pathetic, worthless lips," Dean says, still clenching the end of your leash in one fist as the other hand moves toward his fly and begins to unzip. "You don't even deserve to be my toilet. And you know it. But guess what, bitch? It's your lucky day, 'cause I bet all these fucking strangers wanna watch me shower down your filthy face and fill that thirsty throat with piss."

"Ugh  _God_  yes..." you whimper, unable to contain it.  _He's too fucking hot... too damn perfect..._

"Did I say you could talk?" he rasps, finally whipping out his huge cock. With his massive meat freed from his pants, he shifts one of his feet to deal a savage kick to your bare naked ass. Then takes his dick in hand, aims the glistening tip at your greedy whore lips. "Dumb piece of shit. Shut up and drink."

Everyone in the room growls and hoots in approval, as your flawless master floods your gaping mouth with his glorious juices, feeding you so well, till your whole soul feels full. He'd had plenty of whiskey tonight, so he's got fucking gallons of pure golden piss to fill you up just right. Dean laughs as it splashes and cascades all over your face, drenching your hair and dripping down your forehead, forcing you to scrunch your eyes, though you always open them again, to behold his beauty as often as you can, even if it means being struck blind. It's worth it, every time.

Once he's finally done, he looks down at you like what you are, a sorry sack of scum. That superior smirk on his beautiful face has you coming undone. "Hmm. Even after taking all that piss... think you're still too dirty to suck this dick, you filthy little bitch," he says, suddenly throwing your head hard onto the ground, then squatting down, over your face. "Why don't you eat my sweaty ass until you suffocate. Then maybe you can take this cock you love so much deep in your tight ass or your desperate cunt. If you earn it, slut." 

 _Ugh Goddd_ —you immediately start worshiping his perfect asshole with your lips and tongue. It's so delicious that your sanity is seriously gone. Some corner of your brain is still keenly aware of all the kinky strangers watching; it makes everything that's happening just that much more arousing. The orgasm that seems to be surging throughout your body on repeat, as you struggle to breathe, is so intense that you're pretty sure you are literally drowning...

You have no sense of just how much time has passed, by the time Dean is done sitting on your face, then trampling you beneath his feet, then plowing his massive cock deep in your dripping wet pussy and tight little ass, tearing up every hole that you have and breaking you in half. The finale of this show, you already know, will be him coming on your face and down your throat.

Something happens before you can get to that, though.

With a sharp jolt of panic, as Dean gets in position to feed you his load, you suddenly sense someone else approaching from behind, coming close.  _Fuck—it's that creepy one_ ; you can just tell that he's keen to get in on the action, before the scene ends...

But that ain't gonna fly with Dean Winchester. " _Hell_  no. Show's over."

"Aw, come on—" the sleazy stranger groans. "Just... just let us get in on the fun..."

"Listen good, you sick bastard," your master growls, moving to stand protectively in front of you. "You lay a finger on her, come within a fucking inch of her—and I  _swear_  it'll be the last thing you do.  _Ever_."

"You  _serious_?" the trucker asks, apparently unable to believe it. You notice with a horrified shudder that he's holding his hideous— _and hilariously small_ —dick in his grimy fist. "Fine, then. We sure as hell ain't gonna help you with your little roadside problem."

"Oh, is that so? Well, guess what, you fucking sack of truck stop  _scum_ ," Dean fumes at him. "We don't actually need a goddamn thing from you. This was just a sweet excuse for the two of us to screw while getting off on having sick perverts like you enjoy the view. Because we like that. Because  _she_  likes that. One second of her pleasure is worth more than all your sorry lives all put together."

The creep chuckles and whistles, seemingly amused. Stupid enough to laugh in the face of a threat from none other than Dean Fucking Winchester. "Well, damn, pretty boy—look at you, standing up for your toy. Defending a dog's honor. Talking about this piece of shit as if she matters..."

All of a sudden, then, in a flash and a bang... the trucker is screaming, doubled over in pain. Your head had been bowed, but you raise it up now. Your lover has his gun in hand, and he's taken the liberty of using up a bullet. God knows this scumbag had it coming. And Dean knew just where to hit.

"Ohh, sounds like that hit the target—sorry 'bout that, dickless," he says, though it's clear that he doesn't regret the shot, not in the slightest. "Was honestly so small I thought I might miss."

 _God, how is it even possible for anyone to be so hot, so powerful, so fucking perfect?_  You are falling more deeply in love with Dean every damn second. So hard and so fast that you're not sure how much longer your remaining grip on consciousness can last...

Not long at all, as it turns out. Your vision fades to black, as you feel your whole body go faint and begin to collapse—yet you feel safe, somehow, even when fading out and falling down. For every fall you have... you know that Dean is there to catch.

 

***************

 

He was there to catch you, when you fell—but it was hard as hell, when he feels like he's falling too.

Dean already dreads the day he'll fail to save you. Because...  _well, that's just what he does. He fails; he lets down everything and everyone he loves_. That's why he realizes, now, what he has to do. He hates himself already, more than ever, for all that he's put your through. For daring to run off with you, like he had any right to. Happiness isn't something he has any right to pursue—he knows it. But still, it hurts to be reminded. 

He had gotten you all cleaned up, after you fainted back at the truck stop, clothing you in his own shirt before carrying you down the road toward Baby, setting you softly in the backseat... but you're still completely unconscious. He knows he has no cause to worry, really—of course you're still breathing, probably just stricken by the force of your love, your mind floating off in some state of submissive bliss. You'll be awake before he even knows it. 

And yet... yet he can't shake this feeling that someday you won't be.  _Because of him._ That someday he will be the reason you stop breathing. And it terrifies him more than anything,  _kills_  him, to think of the day that your pure heart stops beating. He just can't let that happen. Even if it means tearing his own heart from his chest and fucking ripping it to shreds. It's what he deserves, for having dared to try and follow it. For having been such a goddamned stupid, selfish son of a bitch. 

Anyway—first things first: he has to get his car out of this ditch.

It's stuck in  _deep_ , damn it. But Dean got the two of you into this mess. No one else. Knows that he has to fix it himself. He could call for help—his brother would come running in a heartbeat—or try asking that voice up in his head, the cryptic angel, praying to him desperately...  _but what kind of sorry excuse for a man would he be, if he did?_  He's already nothing but a godforsaken sack of shit. Destined for hell.

And  _fuck_ —soon the sun will be up. The first hints of its bright golden light kiss the distant horizon. He can't stop it from rising; he wonders if he'll even make it in time, before then. How much longer till Ellen wakes up and realizes what's happened? Or will Sammy get out of bed before then and come searching for him? Dean remembers having cracked the joke, some days ago, that if he were to run off with you... he thinks your mom would kill him. It's not much of a joke when he figures it's actually true. He sort of hopes it is; he would deserve it. 

At least the time he spent driving into the night, giving into a feeling he can't fight, with you—one of the only dreams that Dean has ever dared to let come true—for whatever little time it may have lasted... would be worth it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this!! :) Always grateful for kudos and comments <3
> 
> And yes, there is another Jo episode coming up next — I will try to include as much filthy smut in it as possible... Not sure how it'll end up, but I'll do my best!! Promise :D


	28. (S02E06) I'm a Little Twisted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 6 ("No Exit")*
> 
> *In which you are Jo Harvelle (yet again!)*
> 
> Shit between you and Dean Fucking Winchester has always been twisted.
> 
> But just how twisted can it get? Is there a limit?
> 
> For you, at least... there definitely isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, what is it with me and these Dean/Jo scenes??... Just like the last chapter, this one is also almost 10k words :P There is a lot of emotional stuff, but there is also super filthy smut. Hopefully enough :) I really hope you all enjoy it!! But first:
> 
> **WARNING** — ok, so this chapter includes the first reference to scat kink. I know, I know, it's totally disgusting, but it kind of just happened in this scene and I couldn't help it. (Fans of my first fic may be familiar with this...) BUT I can assure you, the scat DOES NOT actually happen. Dean and Jo don't even really talk about it. She just thinks of how she wants it, and he can tell she wants it, but there is no actual shit happening, I *promise.* And the references to it are pretty brief. So if you're not into this kink but have otherwise been liking this fic, I still really think you can enjoy most of this scene. Also, I don't expect to include scat again in upcoming chapters (at least not for a while, if ever), so I hope you won't give up on the whole fic just because of this.
> 
> Ok, so now that that's out of the way... read on my dear Deanbitches :D

 

***Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 6 ("No Exit")***

***In which you are Jo Harvelle (yet again!)***

 

 

"So," Sam sighs, looking out the side window, then over at his brother as Baby keeps rumbling on down this old dusty road, "we ever gonna talk about what really happened? With you and Jo?"

Dean's knuckles whiten on the steering wheel, green gaze fixated firmly on the windshield. "No."

 _And it's damn dumb of Sam to keep asking_ , he thinks.  _Should've known the answer to that question will always be no_. It had just been a few days ago, the great escape that you and he had tried to make. Feels like another life, another world, a dream that he had never dared to chase before, till then. And never will again. The dream ended as soon as it began. Yet Dean still remembers every minute, clear and vivid, as if he's still living in it.

Most of all, he remembers how heartbreakingly vulnerable you had looked, after that whole shady shitshow at the truck stop, having fainted from the trauma or the multiple orgasms or the sheer force of your love for him or something. How horrified he'd been to think of all the ways that your precious life could be ruined. All the ways that it already had been.  _Because of him._  He remembers summoning the strength to give up on the happiness that he had so stupidly let himself pursue, the dream of running off with you. 

As it turned out, his strength was greater than he knew—he'd had the strength to push his car out of that muddy roadside ditch all by himself. Sure, he's got a lot of muscle, but that shouldn't have been humanly possible; maybe heaven had stepped in to help. Dean hadn't prayed or asked for a damn thing from that cryptic celestial presence in his head, the angel he's been trying to suppress. Nor anybody else. And yet somehow the Impala had shifted, and even more inexplicably, the bruises and scars that had been left across your bare skin, from all that rough sex and crawling for so long down the road behind him... they had all just magically vanished by the time he'd pulled up to the roadhouse with you that morning.

That had freaked Dean out, more than a little bit. He doesn't like to be in heaven's debt. In _anyone's_  debt. But it's not as if he knows how to repay it, so it's something he'll just make himself forget.

He remembers lifting your limp frame out of the backseat, resting you against the side of Baby, sweeping stray strands of hair from your cheek, and then leaning in toward your lips, caving into his impulse to give you an innocent kiss. In what will always be the most fairytale-like moment of his life, that was the instant that you stirred to consciousness.

"Morning, princess," he had murmured. "I, uh... I think we're gonna have to do that thing again."

You had replied with a gleam in your eyes, something about another round of kinky sex.

Dean had frowned from behind a weak smile and shaken his head. "No. I brought you back home, Jo."

You had blinked into the morning light, noticing where you were just then. "Oh. So you meant that we're gonna have to pretend. That all this never happened," you'd said, biting back tears for a second. "Dean, I... I don't know if I can. But if that's what you want..."

"It's not," he'd cut you off. "But Jo, it's just—it's what you need. Trust me."

For a minute, you had tried to put up a fight. But then Dean had reminded you that your mother was inside, and that if she woke up and saw you here with him, wearing nothing but one of his ragged flannels, she would surely jump to all the right conclusions and shoot a whole round of bullets through his skull. That had shut you up. If you had any hope of Dean keeping his head, you had to pray your mom hadn't yet gotten out of bed.

Thankfully, Ellen hadn't been anywhere in sight, when you two had crept back inside. Her room door was closed and the hallway was quiet; it seemed she hadn't woken yet.

But Sam had. His hulking silhouette had stepped out of the spare bedroom down the corridor just as Dean was opening the bathroom door for you, so you could take a shower—though no longer injured, your whole body and hair and shirt were naturally still covered in the stink of sex and dirt.

Sam hadn't said a word. But he would sure as hell confront his brother later.

 _... Apparently later is now_. Dean knows that he can't really blame Sam for asking, given that they're presently driving right back to the roadhouse. They're headed there because you had called Dean last night, said that you needed his opinion on something important. You had kept things strictly business; evidently, you were much better than him at just pretending that romantic runaway had never happened. At first, he'd been surprised—but then again, you always were good at obeying his command.

And  _God_ , he hates the way he loves you so damn much for that.

 

***************

 

Dean happens to strut his fine ass inside right when you and your mom are in the middle of a catfight. A heated screaming match about the latest lead that you're determined to pursue. It's good timing, really, that the Winchesters arrive at the roadhouse just now—you had called to ask for their views on this very issue. You've put together a strong case file that you know is worth looking into: a series of disappearances of young women from a Philadelphia apartment. The circumstances are more than enough to raise suspicion. And you want to be the one to take on this important hunt, goddamnit, but your stubborn mom won't let you.

 _Just why are you so desperate to dive into the dangers of the hunter's life?_  You wonder sometimes. Maybe it has something to do with your dad; hunting is a way of being close to him, ever since he died. But it's also your best chance at being close to a certain someone else—someone who is still very much alive. You may not like to admit that Dean is the real reason why. But you know, deep down inside.

And you had known how this would all play out as soon as you had called the brothers over to the roadhouse. Mom would stand her ground. She would send Dean and Sam to take the case you've found, while keeping you on lockdown. They would head out to Philly immediately.

It all goes according to plan. Your mother must be glad to finally have this goddamned case off of your hands. But what she doesn't know—what  _no one_  knows, aside from Ash, who has agreed to help you cover up your tracks—is that where Dean Fucking Winchester goes... you're gonna follow.

 

***************

 

Your plan works out way better than you'd even dreamed. Gets you farther than ever from your disapproving mother, and closer and closer to Dean. It all starts with you running into the Winchesters in the halls of the apartment building, and pretending that Dean is your boyfriend. The pretense—and your very presence—catches him off guard and totally pisses him off, of course. While you're carrying on the charade right in front of the landlord, Dean plays along with the act, but smacks your ass a couple of times as payback, making your pussy drip like a whore, which just makes you fall in love with him even more.

Using a thick wad of cash—your well-earned poker winnings—to make an up-front rent payment, you end up staying with the Winchesters in the same furnished apartment. Just as you'd planned. You'll of course have to arrange to sleep in separate rooms, to keep up innocent appearances in front of Sam.  _But sleeping arrangements be damned._  You don't doubt that one way or another, before this trip's over, you'll get in his pants.

When the time comes for the three of you to roam the halls and hunt the ghost, you propose splitting up, to see how Dean reacts. He insists against it, dead set on keeping you close. Just as you had hoped. You know you shouldn't toy with him like this, but you just can't resist. You've spent so much time as his fucktoy and his pet— _and deep down, that's what you will always be, obviously_ —but it's a ton of fun to play around with him a little bit, whatever chance you get.

Soon enough, with you two walking down a hallway all alone, the playing escalates to sass. When Dean gets you fed up with his chauvinist crap, you're not afraid to fight back. Your heart may hold him on a throne, but even in the presence of your king, some part of you still clings onto your inner badass.

"And now you sound like my mother," you snap in response to his latest attack.

His gorgeous green eyes look down at you like the world's most over-protective big brother. "Oh, and that's a bad thing? 'Cause let me tell you—"

"What?" you interrupt.

Dean pauses for a second, pensive gaze tracing your face, conveying so much left unsaid. "Forget it."

 _Ugh. Again with this whole business of forgetting shit, pretending things just never happened when they did_. There's so much that Dean wishes you both could forget.  _It's just not fair, when he's the one who walked into your life and fucked it into one big mess._  "No, you started this."

"Jo, you got options. No one in their right mind chooses this life," he says. "My dad started me on this when I was so young, I wish I could do something else."

"You love the job," you protest.

He knows he does. Yet he isn't about to let you win this contest.  _'Cause he's a fucking life-ruining jerk._ He chuckles lightly, eyebrows raising in a sexy little quirk, one corner of his full lips lifting up into a smirk. "Yeah, but I'm a little twisted."

 _Oh, he so knows what you're gonna say next_ , you think to yourself. Those words set up the sassy comeback perfectly, inevitably after all the two of you have been through. "You don't think I'm a little twisted, too?"

Dean knows just what you mean, biting his bottom lip in a motion that's way too delicious. You're both more than a little twisted. And you both know it. You just can't wait for the next chance that you're gonna get to show it.

 

***************

 

"Morning, princess," you chirp the next morning as Dean stirs awake, his fully clothed body shifting uncomfortably on the black leather recliner where he'd slept, limbs contorted every which way. 

You hope that his twisted sleeping position means that he was having twisted sex dreams. Having spent the past night in the same apartment, sleeping in separate rooms, without getting a taste of his cock was pure torture—and  _not_  the kind of torture you would want. Your only consolation is that hopefully you two were at least dreaming of each other all night long. Wet dreams can't compete with the real thing, but the thought of him fantasizing about fucking your brains out is still a big turn-on.

While Sammy is out getting coffee, you and Dean end up having a heartfelt chat. You open up to him about why you're so keen on hunting—well, at least one of the reasons—that it's your way of being close to your late dad. Ask him what's wrong with that.

His head shakes just the slightest bit; the long lashes that frame his emerald eyes cast shadows fluttering like butterflies across his chiseled cheekbones as he blinks, one soft word slipping past his lips. "Nothing." 

The butterflies in your own heart are flipping out from just how much you fucking love him. He has never looked more beautiful than in this moment. And that's saying a hell of a lot, given how unspeakably beautiful he's always been. You're dying to kiss him right now, to tell him and show him that he is your everything...

That's when Sam bursts in. No time for romance—there has been another disappearance. The three of you look into it, discuss it, and determine soon enough that the culprit is the ghost of some serial murderer son of a bitch: H. H. Holmes. Because Holmes was known for keeping his victims in secret chambers hidden within buildings, the next order of business for you and the Winchesters is to wreck the halls and check inside the walls.

You and Dean stick together again. At one point, squeezing through a tight space, he tells you that it's too narrow; he can't go any further in. You obviously can, being smaller than him. And it's a damn good excuse for you to brush against his body as you wriggle your way through.

Dean groans out loudly when you do, rolling his eyes. " _Unghhh_... should've cleaned the pipes."

His massive cock stiffens immediately underneath his jeans, pressing firm and hard into your ass. "What?" you ask, as if you didn't know exactly what he means.

"I, uh, just—wish the pipes were clean..." he stutters adorably, looking awkwardly away from you and nodding toward the walls nearby. They are indeed dirty, you find, as you force your way deeper inside.

But not nearly as dirty as the way you're gonna clean his pipes tonight.

 

***************

 

So... shit ends up going awry. You get trapped by the ghost, who is creepy as fuck, and you're pretty sure you're gonna die. At least you've got an iron knife, so you're not going down without a fight. But all you can think is that you'll never see Dean again. Never fuck him again. Never gaze into his beloved eyes. That's all that you can think, stuck in this filthy prison in the middle of some old abandoned sewer system, staring down the black hole of the end of your life, struggling not to cry, and not even the badass bitch inside you can deny that you are fucking terrified.

Laying down your life for Dean Winchester is the only way you ever want to die. But he's nowhere in sight, and fate seems to have other plans in mind. It seems you're gonna meet your end in ways far worse than you could ever have imagined. The ghost gropes you, and after you slash through his hand with your blade, he attempts to choke you—he comes really damn close. You can feel consciousness slip away as his suffocating hold cuts off all the air to your throat. _If you try to imagine it's Dean, smothering your face till you can't breathe, maybe then this will all feel like less of a nightmare and more of a dream_... but this murderous ghost is so gross that imagining that won't be easy.

... and then, in an instant, you no longer have to imagine. Because that's when Dean Fucking Winchester bursts on the scene.

As if you could love him any more than you already do, he's come to save you. Like a fairytale come true, your knight in shining armor, prince with all the charm. You've never been much of a Disney princess type, but right now you most definitely are.  _You're all set for Dean to sweep you in his arms, carry you far from harm, to keep you safe and warm, take you away from this dark deathly place, into the light of day..._

But no. That's not how this is gonna go. You're honestly surprised to find that he finally supports the plan that you'd proposed some time ago: for you to serve as bait.

You wonder just what made him change his mind so quickly. He'd refused before; you'd dared to hope it was because he cared for you too much.  _Yet now that he's agreed... what does that mean? Did he never care in the first place, not really?_  Maybe Dean had thought that he'd caught feelings for a minute; if he did, for you, maybe they've already faded away.

At any rate, this is your role to play. To sit and wait, smack in the middle of the ghost trap that the Winchesters have laid. The brothers hide behind an iron grate and keep a close watch as you situate. You seat yourself cross-legged in the center of the chamber, ready to be bait.  _But then again... maybe you're not quite ready. Not just yet._  Although you'd trust Dean with your life any day, some part of you is still aware that if this plan somehow goes sideways, you will likely end up dead. 

You've already been inches away from dying. Throwing yourself right back in that position is just fine by you, as long as it's what Dean wants you to do.  _But first... you need just one more thing._

"Dean," you whisper into the darkness, beckoning him over toward where you're sitting.

He furrows his pretty brows. "What is it?"

"Just—just come here. Hurry," you bid him urgently.

Dean casts a worried glance at Sam, then shoves the grate open and crosses the small room toward you, shotgun in hand. "What's up? Something wrong with the plan?"

You nod and bite your lip, gazing up at him where he so gorgeously stands. "Yeah. I just... I don't know if I can..."

"Listen, Jo," he murmurs, crouching beside you and leaning in close. "If any part of you is not okay with this, in  _any_  way, just say the word and—"

"No," you cut him off, reaching out to rest your hand against his leg, noticing the slight bob of his Adam's apple as he anxiously contracts his throat. "I just meant that I won't risk my life again without... you know."

His pink lips tremble as your palm starts to slide up his denim-clad thigh, nice and slow. "Whoa..."

You lean in towards those parted lips to whisper words into his mouth. "Fuck me, sir. Right here. Right now."

" _What_?" he gasps, sharply pulling back. "Jo, that's just—"

"Fucked? Yeah, kind of like everything between us," you remind him. It's a truth that has always been achingly obvious. One that he can't deny, no matter how hard he might try. "Dean, I thought that I was gonna die in there. And I was scared. But not of dying. I was only terrified of never seeing you again. Of never  _fucking_  you again."

" _Jo_..." he moans as if in pain, while you desperately wrap your loving arms around his strong frame, drawing him in close. He could easily keep pulling back from you, if he wished to, and yet some part of him just... won't. "Sam—Sammy's watching, you know..."

"Yeah, and so is some psycho serial killer ghost," you mumble into his sweaty skin as you start pressing kisses all along his panting throat. The two of you have already explored the kink of fucking with an audience.  _This audience is just a little... different._  "Pretty damn twisted, isn't it?"

" _Ungh_ —" Dean grunts as one of your hands drops back down toward his pants, his hips shifting on instinct just to give your eager fingers better access to his dick. "Yeah, a little bit..."

"Damn straight it is," you passionately purr, your thirsty mouth continuing to worship his neck for a second before inching up toward his breathless lips. "You know something? I think you finally agreed to using me as bait for this because you know I'm nothing but a worthless piece of shit."

It's not the reaction that you had expected, but those words are what snaps Dean out of this, pushing him past some kind of limit. He disengages from your arms and rises to his feet on the instant. "Oh, don't you  _dare_ —"

"What? You fucking pissed?" you hiss, shifting to stand in front of him, meeting his raging green eyes with your own seething glare. "Then show it. This bitch wants to be punished. In front of your kid brother, some old spirit out for bloody murder, in front of whoever—I  _don't. Fucking. Care_."

Dean just stands there and stares at you with all the fury in the world. And all that hot smoldering anger makes your toes curl, makes you even more desperate to be his dirty little girl.

But right now, you just really need to win this war. So you try to stand taller, squaring your shoulders. "I'm  _literally_ risking my life by following your orders. Don't you think a hard goodbye fuck is the least that I deserve?"

"My orders?  _My_ orders? This was  _your_ idea, goddamnit. And no way in hell is this goodbye. I'm not gonna let it—" 

"Seriously? My own idea to get pimped out to some sick ghost as bait—you honestly believed that?" you ask, crossing your arms and amping up the sass. "You know I just wanted to see how you'd react. To see if you actually give a shit about me."

At this point Dean's green eyes are radiating a whole new level of fury. "Oh, now you're just..."

"What? Asking for it?"

"Downright  _begging_ , bitch."

"Tell me something I don't know, you big beautiful  _idiot_."

Silence follows for what feels like a whole minute but is probably half a second. Dean's knuckles are white on the gun he's still gripping; the pipes in this old sewer system are dripping. And so is your cunt, as ever in his presence. You're vaguely aware of Sammy's heavy breathing in the background, as he silently witnesses the intense foreplay that's going down. Maybe the creepy ghost is watching, too. But none of that matters.  _All that matters is Dean Fucking Winchester. Preferably fucking you._

You can glimpse that sweet pink tongue of his flickering in the wet darkness between his slightly parted lips. He's pissed. You know that, and you get it. But you also know he wants this. Not as desperately as you do, but he does. He wants this, too. Maybe you'll never really know whether or not he cares about you... but you do know that he's always down to fuck you.

Clearing your throat, you look around the room, then at the huge bulge in his jeans, your bright eyes glimmering suggestively. "You know, Dean... I think the pipes down in here  _really_ need to get cleaned." 

He clenches his jaw as you take one step closer. Raw rage and hate are written all across his face, etched deep into his flawless features. But it's all directed more so at himself than you; he doesn't pull away. Just stays in place.

"So... what's it gonna be?" you tease, biting your bottom lip back with a sensuous scrape of your teeth. The submissive slut in you has never been so fucking ready to spring free. "You as twisted as me?"

Dean takes a pause before he speaks. But from the way his dark gaze flashes with a dangerous gleam, you can already tell what his answer will be. 

It's still hot as hell to hear him say it, though. Obviously. "Oh, you'll see," he growls down at you ominously. "Now shut the fuck up and get on your knees."

 

***************

 

"Yeah, suck on that dick till you fucking choke..." Dean dominantly groans as you swallow his throbbing shaft deep down your throat. He's been hammering your face nonstop for maybe fifteen minutes. You could go on fifteen centuries like this, when he's so goddamn delicious. With your gaze fixed on his perfect face as his massive meat stretches your lips, he keeps talking dirty the whole time like nobody's business. "Ugh yes, that's it—you filthy fucking  _bitch_..."

When he stops to pull out, it's just so he can stick his thumbs into the sides of your mouth and feed you a thick shot of his spit. While you eagerly drink it, he rubs the wet head of his dick in teasing circles all around your sloppy lips, leaving a dewy trail of precome that your tongue starts lashing out to try and lick.

"Such a greedy pig," he sneers, his mockery pure music to your ears. "Pathetic little cock-worshiping piece of shit."

 _Ughh, holy fuck_ —his cruel words always cut a direct line of pleasure straight down to your cunt, stimulating your clit when he's not even touching it.

"What do you want," he taunts, masterfully handling his flawless cock, tracing it across every last inch of your lips while your tongue keeps on chasing the glistening tip. "Hm? What's gonna satisfy that kinky little cunt... You thirsty for my come? For some steaming hot piss? Bet you're desperate for any damn thing you can get from this big fucking dick."

You frantically bob your dumb head up and down as your pussy juice splatters all over the ground.

"Look at you, all soaking wet," Dean scoffs, torturing you by lifting his cock farther off of your mouth, rubbing it on your forehead, pulling your face in toward him so his heavy balls smash up into your snout. "Naughty little pet making a big fucking mess. What gets you off like this? You like serving your master in front of an audience? Answer me while you sniff on those sweaty balls, bitch."

" _Umphhh_ —" you splutter with his nut sack roughly smothering your lips. "Y- _yes_ , sir I... f-fucking love it..."

"Shut up and lick."

You rush to do as bid, flattening your thirsty tongue against the damp pink skin to savor every inch, then slathering his whole sack with passionate openmouthed kiss after kiss after kiss. Just as you know he loves, you suck his balls into your mouth both at once. It's pure heaven, the way that the huge mouthful cracks your already chapped lips, while the smell and the taste of his musky sweat send waves of bliss to your cunt, making you wallow in submission as it drips. 

Some corner of your brain can sense that Sam is watching, no doubt jerking off to this. It's sick, but you're sure that even Dean's own brother gets off on how hot he is. On what a fucking god he is. As for the creepy evil spirit... well, cute young girls have always seemed to be his type, but watching Dean tonight, even his ugly undead ass is probably craving this sweet dick. It's so twisted to even think it. But you're all about being twisted.

When Dean pulls his luscious balls out of your mouth, they pop out with a slobbery suctioning sound, causing a whole pool of your drool to leak onto the ground. He looks down at the mess that you've made with a dark, displeased frown. "You are  _disgusting_. Clean it up, you fucking pig."

"Yes, sir," you whimper, stooping down to dutifully slurp up all your spit.

"All of it," he commands once you're finished with that. "What—did you forget? That filthy cunt of yours has been gushing all over the floor. Do your damn job, you sick little whore. That's what that worthless fucking mouth is for."

"Y-yes, Master..." you sigh, tears of humiliated joy pricking your eyes, blissed out as ever from being his toy and taking all his orders. As you mop up your own juice, your whole soul swells with gratitude for how his domination never fails to bless you with the most divine of pleasures. "Thank you..."

"Thank you for  _what_ ," Dean demands, taking one end of his thick leather belt in his hands and then lashing it sharply against your bare ass. At this point, you're both naked; he had stripped you both, savagely ripping off all your clothes, some time ago. Basically right when this session of kinky sex started. "Dumb little slut."

He's flogging you so viciously he might be drawing blood. You can't really tell, given how numb and hazy you are as you grovel facedown on the ground like a mutt. "Th-thank you for... for everything, sir— _unghhh_..."

Dean lets out a harsh grunt of disgust. "That ain't good enough. Why isn't your worthless face worshiping at my feet, you nasty fucking cunt."

" _Ohh_..." you euphorically moan as you drag your mouth and nose over the floor toward his statuesque toes. "Oh, Master, I'm so sorry... thank you for letting me worship your beautiful feet..."

"Stop—fucking—thanking me," he rasps, with each word bringing his leather whip down more brutally onto your ass. As he does, with your lips pressed against the smooth nail of his big toe, you let out an agonized gasp. Then you thank him in silence, servicing each of his sweet sweaty toes with a sloppy French kiss. His verbal abuse continues, merciless and malicious.  _So motherfucking delicious._  "What makes you think I wanna hear that? You're so damn pathetic it's making me sick."

Getting off on all of the abuse he has to give, you carry on like that for several minutes, lavishing every last one of his toes, every inch of his ankles and soles, with a series of long, loving licks. Dean Winchester's feet are such a fucking masterpiece.  _Your purpose in life is to serve and to please..._

"Enough of that," he eventually snaps, using one of those divine feet to kick at your trembling body until you flip onto your back. "We all know what that dirty whore tongue really needs is to worship this sweet fucking ass."

" _Oh God, yesss_..." you desperately pant as Dean plants his feet firmly on either side of your head, positioning himself in such a way that you can gaze up at his gorgeousness when you're sucking his ass. He smirks dominantly down at you while he squats into place with his sweaty cheeks hovering over your face. The smirk turns even more devilish as he clutches those muscular globes in his hands, spreads them apart, a little bit... 

And then, gawking up at his sphincter, so perfectly puckered and pink, you're overcome with the most soul-crushing sensation of submission that you have ever experienced: it hits you all of a sudden that you literally want to eat his shit. If you're totally honest, from the moment you first met him, you had wanted it, although it'd always seemed too shameful to admit. Yes, it's  _beyond_  disgusting, and you know it. But Dean is just... he's  _beyond_  perfect. You love him more than anyone or anything, exist only to worship him, and serving him as his actual toilet is the best damn way to show it. There is no purer way to completely submit. To prove that your love for him has no limits. Maybe the realization should have shocked you, but it didn't. Because when it comes to this one man—your god, your king, your  _everything_... it's no secret that you're more than just a little twisted.

In the meantime, it's clear that Dean is reading your mind, through your wide open eyes. And he looks fucking terrified. Disgusted, no doubt, at how you would die for him to take a big dump in your mouth. You're sure that his shit tastes delicious, and would be more than worth getting sick, but you're also sure that Dean himself would  _never_  think it. You didn't know, till now, if his kinks even had any limits—apparently this one is it.

And you've never been more ashamed to exist.

 _Goddamnit. Shit. Literal fucking shit_ , you think in silence, shutting your eyes and sealing your lips, suddenly unable to bring yourself to give that perfect ass a kiss. Which just makes you hate yourself all that much more, of course. You've pledged your whole being to serving as Dean's dirty whore— _it's all you ever want to live for—and yet_... and yet in this instant, for reasons you can't comprehend, it feels like everything inside of you is going to war.

"Jo..." Dean murmurs, voice full of concern as he carefully shifts his position on top of your body. "Jo, I'm so sorry—"

" _No_ ," you protest, shaking your head, stumbling clumsily out from beneath him and struggling to stand on two feet. "Don't be."

Dean reaches out toward you, moved by some heartfelt impulse to protect, clearly troubled by your distress.  _Of course he would feel that way, when you're such a fucking mess._  "Well, I am. Jo—listen..." he says in earnest. "I just..."

 _Yes, I get it. You can't take a shit in my mouth. I'm just too fucking twisted; no doubt you can never even see me as a human being now._  You don't say any of that out loud. Instead you move across the room and pick up all your scattered clothes, opting to shut him out. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He's not backing down, though. " _Jo_..."

"Back the fuck off, okay?" you shout, every word pushing him ever further away. "Get back behind that gate. I'm ready to be bait."

"No fucking way—"

"It's  _my_  role to play."

"Not in this state."

"Well, that ain't your call to make."

"The hell it ain't," he grumbles furiously as he grabs you by the waist.

 _Ugh_ —your every instinct is to give in to him;  _just the sheer force of his touch is powerful enough to get you feeling faint_... but you still have a little bit of strength. You jab him in the ribs and squirm away. "In case you didn't notice, Dean, we're way past the end of the sex scene. You can't just drag me around like a slave."

The fury in his gaze continues to blaze. "That's  _not_  what this is..."

"Then what the fuck is it?"

"Just  _listen_ —"

"No Dean,  _you_  listen," you butt in, well aware of what a total bitch you're being. But with all your issues, all your inner demons, all your self-hatred and self-defensive instincts kicking in, it's not like you can help it. "If you won't let me make decisions by myself, if you won't even give me that basic respect, then—well, then I'll just feel like even more of a pathetic, worthless, twisted piece of  _shit_."

You hiss the last word of that sentence with a ton of extra emphasis. Just to make sure that he gets the message. Seeing him flinch as you say it breaks your stupid heart to pieces. By this point you're half-clothed, but where it counts you still feel fully naked. You wonder why you have to be like this— _how much more twisted can a bitch even get?_... but wondering is pointless.

So you just finish getting dressed and carry on. "So tell me, Dean—is that what you want?"

He pauses for a second, then shakes his beautiful head and sighs out a quiet response. "No, it's not."

"Good. Then like I said—" you mutter, settling in your position in the center of the room, right under where the trap is set. Right now, you couldn't even care less if this plan ends with you dead. To Dean, you must now seem like something subhuman.  _And that means that you're already dead enough._ You finish the sentence with what little strength you have left. "...back the fuck off."

And he does. It's not every day that a bitch gets to issue an order to Dean Fucking Winchester. Much less to have him obey. But for better or worse, he does just what you say, slowly walking away. This is your call to make. He decides to let you take the reins on your own life, even as his heart breaks, even if it doesn't quite feel right.

Neither of you knows it now—but Dean is gonna have to find the strength, somehow, to make that same decision when it  _really_  counts. To do the same damn thing the day you die.

 

***************

 

As it turns out, the day that you're destined to die is far away. Today, you're saved. The plan goes just as you had hoped: you and the Winchesters trap the old serial murderer's ghost, imprisoning Holmes in a ring of salt deep in that underground hole. Then Dean steals a cement truck to seal the hole shut. The three of you go about business as if Sammy had never witnessed that session of sick twisted sex. As if it never happened. 'Cause everything hurts less when you just pretend.

Till it doesn't. Denying pain is no way for the wounds to really mend. Dean knows it—his whole damn life has been a study in that lesson, pushing demons down until they eat him from the inside out. It's not a lesson he lets himself learn, but when it comes to you... he can't just sit here, watch you crash and burn. Smothering pain is his mistake to make. Not yours. It's a mistake that he makes every day, one that will bring him to his grave—but  _you_ he has to save.

Or die trying. He probably will, he thinks. He can't think of any better way of dying.

"Hey, Sammy—could you, uh, give us a minute?" he asks his brother once the ghost's prison has been cemented shut, as the three of you return to the apartment to pack up your stuff.

Sam nods solemnly. "Sure thing. You'll probably need hours, I think, but—but yeah. Of course, Dean. All the time you need."

Times like this Dean really loves his brother. Patting Sam on the shoulder, as a silent way of thanking him, he heads toward the bedroom. You're supposedly packing your bags in there, but he knows better—he finds you sitting on the edge of the bed, so dead inside that when he walks in, you don't even bother trying to object.

You don't really have hours to spend together; you both know that the next flight into Philly is arriving any minute, and you'll soon be face-to-face with your infuriated mother. The Winchesters had told you earlier how Ash had blown your cover. So Dean can't even have an hour, which hurts like hell when all he wants is forever.

He had thought he would have to use words, to work through all the hurt. But he doesn't. At least not at first. Just a look or a touch can say more than enough. Because that's how deeply you know one another; you  _are_ one another. Your broken hearts beat with the same blood, so full of self-hatred and selfless love. Today Dean takes you in a way he never really has before—not you, not anyone—taking in a way that feels like giving, dying in a way that feels like living, making you feel like you are his entire world, just as truly as he is yours.

And yes, it hurts. And yet you love the way it does, the way that everything about him fucks you up. Love the way that it kills you to be so head over heels in love with Dean Fucking Winchester. Because pretending that it doesn't, pretending that so much as one precious moment of your time with him never happened... is so,  _so_  much worse.

You know it now more than ever, as you gaze up into his evergreen eyes while he eases you down from the highest climax of your life. Once you've both regained some of your senses, come back down to earth, then he finally speaks.

Glancing at the clock, he sees it's been almost an hour that you've spent together. Ellen's flight must have landed for sure. He lets out a low groan of agony. "So, uh... I guess now your mom's gonna kill me."

Still beaming from having been taken to heaven, you lean in and kiss his cheek. "Don't worry, gorgeous. If she ever even tried, I'd kill her first," you murmur, truthfully. He starts smiling back, at that, and yet the smile just feels...  _off_  somehow, enough to give you pause. "What?"

Dean brushes it off with a light shrug. "That's funny. The thing you just said."

"No, it's not."

Now it's his turn to take a pause. "...you're serious?"

Your head bobs in a calm nod. You meant every word.

"The fuck?" Dean mutters, shifting beside you on the bed. Unsettled by what you've admitted. "She's your  _mother_."

"Think I don't know that? Sometimes I hate her guts, sure, but God knows I love her," you assure him. "More than anybody else. Until... well."

It's honestly not clear to you why this is all making Dean so uncomfortable. "Fucking hell—"

"Don't get your boxers in a twist about it," you mumble, though he isn't wearing any boxers to twist, and though you know full well how twisted your love for him is. You try to keep the mood playful. "Figure someone's gotta make up for how much you hate yourself."

"No one has to make up for a damn thing," he says, having shifted further over the past few seconds. At this point he's sitting upright in the bed, reaching for his shirt while you're still lying down naked. "It's what I deserve. Hate is all I'm worth, Jo."

 _Ugh, fuck that_. You sit up yourself, grabbing the shirt out of his hands. "No."

He grabs it back. "What, you think I don't believe it?"

You wrestle it back from him yet again and throw the stupid thing across the room. "Of course you do, you beautiful idiot, but it's still a big steaming pile of bullshit."

Dean lets out a dark laugh, tongue flicking out over his lips. "Yeah, that does sound like me."

" _Not_  you, Dean. The crap that you believe," you furiously snap. The sight of him hating himself so much, after the depths and heights of love that you've just shared with him, is more than you can stand. "I don't know if it's daddy issues or what, but some screw in that pretty head is loose as fuck and  _damn_  it's messed you up." 

Now  _that_  pisses him off. A whole fucking lot. For a fraction of a second, he looks mad enough to punish you right now— _in all the filthy ways you want..._ but no, he's not. Something inside him cracks. And just like that, the surge of rage that has been building up just... stops.

You take that as your cue, to pull him in toward you, to hold him tenderly. The way that normal lovers do. There will never be anything normal about either of you, but sometimes this tame kind of love is just what even the most twisted lovers need. "I know I'm not the only girl who sees you for exactly what you are, Dean. And loves you for it like fucking crazy. Why can't—why can't you just believe in  _that_? See what we see?"

He breathes slow and deep as you cradle his face in your hands. "I... I don't know. I just can't, Jo," he says, blind to his own perfection as he stares at his reflection in your eyes, for reasons you will never understand. "I just can't."

Biting your lip, you pause for a moment just to take him in. That one sweet freckle on his nose, the one you love the most, the subtle scar across his chin. " _God_ , you are beautiful," you gush wholeheartedly. "You're perfect, Dean. Believe me."

He bites his own lip and then bends down, burying his face in the space beneath yours, pressing soft kisses against your neck, drowning himself in you. "I want to."

"Then do," you urge him, fingers combing through his rich brown hair as you bask in the bliss of each kiss, forgetting for a minute that you don't deserve it. "Believe me when I say you are my life's entire purpose. 'Cause I  _mean_  it, Dean. You're worth it. You're worth everything. I live for you and love every last minute of it. Till the day I die for you."

The words sort of just fell from your mouth, mindlessly spilling out. You hadn't thought of how he would react, so you aren't prepared for the way he suddenly pulls back, right now. "Whoa—Jo..."

" _Don't_ ," you breathe, drawing him back in toward you desperately. "I told you not to get your boxers in a twist about this kind of thing, Dean. We both know it's true."

He pushes back harder against you. "No..."

 _Goddamnit_ , you think— _this whole push and pull thing is really getting old_. You wrap your limbs around his bare skin, tightening your hold. "I won't die any other way, Dean. I  _refuse_."

"The hell you won't," he grunts, continuing to back off as your grip starts getting rough. " _Shit_ , just—"

Ever more desperate, you lean in toward his beautiful lips for a kiss. It's the best way to shut him up. You can't resist...

You should have, though. Because that's when Dean pulls back hard enough to fucking force you to let go. "Just—just  _stop it_ , Jo."

Something about his tone, in that moment, the force behind his movements as he rises from the bed, crushes your soul. You realize then that you'd been forcing yourself onto him, when he didn't want it.  _When he doesn't want you_. After all you've been through, it's crazy that you'd even think that could be true, but then again, it's even crazier to think the opposite.  _God, you are seriously one pathetic, twisted piece of shit._  

In any event, for what you had just done, you know you owe Dean an apology. "I... I'm so sorry..."

"Yeah, you should be," he replies ruthlessly. 

 _Damn, that cuts deep_. 

But Dean goes on before you can spend too long wallowing in misery. "You—you think I got issues, some loose screws? Maybe I do. But you know what? All that ain't  _nothing_  next to what you're putting me through," he rasps, pacing across the room, barely able to look at you. He swipes his hand over his mouth, looks down and shakes his head. "I mean—son of a  _bitch_ , just... Talk about messing me up.  _Fuck_."

As you take in Dean's words, you find that you have no clue what he means, or what to do. You figure the best option is just to fuck off, if it's true that you're screwing him up. "I'm really sorry. I'll just—"

"No," he growls, taking a few steps back toward the bed, glaring straight at you now. "You think you can just  _go_? After dropping a bomb like that, Jo?"

"A bomb?" you echo. For reasons that you can't begin to describe, something about hearing and saying that word sends a dark, deathly chill down your spine. You dismiss the fleeting thought; the only bomb you know of is the one that his whole damn existence constantly sets off in your heart. In any event, he has no fucking right to be shocked about hearing that you're gonna die for him. "What, are... are you honestly surprised?"

"That's not even—" Dean snarls as he lunges onto the bed. On his knees right in front of where you're sitting, he pauses once your face is inches away from his, licking his lips and taking a deep, shaking breath. "Listen. I don't ever— _ever_ —want to even fucking  _think_  about seeing you die. Let alone being the damn reason why."

Something glimmers bright and bitter from behind his deep green eyes.  _Oh God, is he about to cry?_

"How the hell am I supposed to live with that, huh? Knowing what you'd do. That I've fucking ruined your life," he says, leaning in to rest his forehead, furrowed brows and beaded sweat, against your own, heaving a broken sigh. "When—when I..."

And then he kisses you, slow and deep on the lips, just to shut himself up. When his sweet mouth descends to your neck, you have to ask him this—you just  _have_ to, even when each kiss is already professing the truth. "When you what?"

"Keep that pretty mouth shut," he orders, whispering the words into your gasping throat. "You already know."

There's so much that he's shown, and yet... he's never  _said_  it. You have, to him, thousands of times, but he never did. For all you know, you've just been pathetically misreading everything. "I don't know shit."

He has you on your back now, as his sinful mouth moves even further down, toward your tits. " _Damn it_ , Jo. Don't make me call you a beautiful idiot."

"Isn't that my line?" you can't help but reply.

"Maybe. But I own your ass, don't I?" he teases as his tongue traces your cleavage. "So I guess it's mine."

You really would like to say something, but what he is doing to you is just too damn divine...

"You're  _mine_ ," he reminds you, right before making a promise that part of him knows is a lie. "And I ain't  _ever_  gonna let you die."

Somehow you manage to respond then, even as his mouth on your chest keeps blowing your mind, even when you can feel his enormous dick sliding over your clit, inching down till his slick swollen tip and your soaking wet slit are seamlessly aligned. "You can't stop it, stupid. Can't even try."

"Watch me," he counters, plunging deep in your cunt in one sweet, perfect stroke, piercing you to your core. Reminding you again that you are his world, just as he is yours.

You smile blissfully into his lips, whispering words through the kiss. Even when your eyes are closed, they're still drowning in his. And ever will be. You tell him what he told you once, the closest that he's ever come to confessing love. With him, anything close is more than enough. "Always am, Dean. You're the only thing I see."

 

***************

 

"So this is what it feels like?" Dean asks, lying beneath you, looking past his own reflection in your eyes, into the soul inside. 

He once thought he had felt it, with Cassie.  _Turns out she had been right all along, though._ He never had. Not really. He honestly thought it, and sure, he'd come pretty damn close. But now that—now that he's feeling  _this_ , here with you... now he knows the truth. Now he knows. He reminisces about the lyrics to that cheesy REO Speedwagon song that you'd played for him back in the roadhouse. ' _Closer than I ever thought I might..._ '

You kiss your favorite freckle on his nose as you reply. "Yeah. Kind of feels like dying, right?"

Dean's head moves in what might've been a nod, but you can't quite tell when he sweeps you deeper in his arms and rolls over until he's back on top. The two of you carry on like that for some fuzzy length of time between forever and a minute.

"Wanna know a little secret, Dean?" you tease when you have him beneath you again. "Where it counts... I'm  _always_  gonna win."

His sweet pink mouth turns down into a little pout as he creases his brows. "Wipe that smirk off your pretty face, bitch. The hell does that even mean?"

"Oh, nothing. Just—you know..." you purr as you kiss every other freckle on his nose, "that I will always love you more."

You can feel his chest rumble with a low growl before he shifts to throw you down. The sweet, gentle sex has been epic— _but now_... well, you're pretty sure that you've provoked him a bit. Something a little more twisted just might be in store. "Fuck making love, then," he snarls savagely into your skin. "This is  _war_."

 

***************

 

You really, really,  _really_  hate your raging bitch of a mother. And when she's right... well, that's what you hate the most about her.

After the longest and most awkward car ride in the history of ever, you and Ellen riding in silence for hours with the Winchesters, now you're finally back in the roadhouse. And you're pretty sure your mom is never gonna let you out. 

But that's not what you're pissed about. She's already made the big reveal about Dean's dad, about how John is basically the reason why your own father is dead. Sure, that's really fucking sad. But it's all in the past.  _So, well, whatever._

Whereas right now, your mother is screaming your head off about something that's very much in the present. Something about another Winchester. "He  _used_ you. He used you as  _bait_ , Jo. Laid a trap and set your sorry ass smack in the center of it."

You're listening. Seething in silence, hearing every word, even when you wish you weren't.

Your mom presses on. "Now, I know that you consented; you're a big girl, so I can't really blame him for what he did. Yes, I hate his guts right about now, but I know he's a good guy deep down. So I don't want to kill him or anything, if that's what you think. But that... that isn't the point, hon. The point is I don't want you in over your head just to get your heart broken. Not if I can help it. I'm sure he doesn't mean to lead you on, but Jo—actions speak louder than any words can." 

He's never actually even said the words, you remind yourself just then.

"And deep down, you know," Ellen says. "Just—just stop for a second and ask yourself: would you  _ever_ use him as bait, for anything? Ever even dream of it? If you love him, you know the answer is no." 

You really need her to shut up right now.  _Please, Mom, just shut the hell up..._

"I know real love when I see it, Jo. And it's just... I hate to be the one to break it to you, honey, but—"

"Then  _don't!_ " you suddenly explode, the words tearing a hole in your throat. "What, you don't think I'm already broke?"

Your mother blinks, her own heart as well clearly broken. "Baby, this is what—"

"Please... please just leave me alone," you implore, heading toward the front door. "It's like you said. Deep down I already know."

She tries to follow. "So—"

"So that's it. You got what you wanted," you cut her off as you approach the exit. "I've learned my lesson. The hard way, but ain't that the best? I'll never trust my stupid fucking heart again, 'cause if I do, I'll end up dead."

" _Jo_ —Joanna Beth, that wasn't what I meant..."

"Well, it should've been. I get it. No one could ever love such a pathetic, twisted piece of shit," you hiss.  _Least of all someone who's literally perfect._ You don't say that aloud, but you look back at your mother to spit out a few more words, before you storm right out the door. "At least you can finally stop trying so hard to protect me. There ain't nothing left to protect."

 

***************

 

Dean thinks you're pissed because of the whole dad thing.  _Of course that's what he thinks._ That was all you had mentioned, after stepping outside and snapping like a crazy bitch at him, before strutting aimlessly into the distance. And since he's such a big steaming sack of self-hate, he'll probably take the blame upon himself for every damn mistake his daddy ever made.  _That's what you would do, being so screwed. It takes one to know one_.

But there's a big difference. Dean doesn't deserve any of his self-hatred. It's just part of what makes him even more lovable, even more perfect.  _Whereas you_... well. It doesn't take a genius to tell. A piece of shit like you is worth more hate than you could ever even give yourself.

You'll never know what's really going through Dean's head, through his heart, as he watches you go. Even he doesn't know. He just wishes so badly that he could follow. But he won't. 'Cause that's not what you want. He had tried,  _really_  tried, to love you right—to find the line between the instinct to protect and to respect. To keep you safe from harm without smothering who you are. He's not your mother; he's not even your big brother.  _In some other world, he might've been your lover_... but that's more than he deserves. All he ever did to you was screw you over. Fuck you up, by poisoning your pure soul with some spell of sexual submission, something sick and twisted that you got confused with love.  _No wonder you want him to fuck off._ Being angry at him for what happened to your father must just be a front; you've probably snapped out of your misplaced massive crush on him, finally come to your senses, had enough.

 _And that's just as it should be_ , Dean thinks. You'll be better off, the sooner you realize that he's just a big steaming pile of shit. Way more than just a little twisted. He really is. What  _really_  freaked him out the most about... about that thing you wanted, just the thought of pushing past that limit, was that... well, he didn't have it. 

But that's not something he's willing to admit. Not to himself, to you, to anyone. Ever.  _It doesn't matter anyway._  He's glad that it will never matter. 'Cause you're walking far away from him; you'll finally be safe. To you, he's nothing.

Dean doesn't know that his tortured thoughts mirror just what  _you're_  thinking. That you must be nothing to him. As you forge on into the distance, all that you can see is the heartbreaking vision of how beautiful he had been, in that moment, when you'd sat down for a heart-to-heart and asked him what was wrong with what you want. You remember every flawless inch of his face: the butterfly-like flutter of his bright green eyes, each freckle on his cheekbones and his nose, especially that one you love the most, every spot on his skin worth more than your entire existence, and the exact shape of the empty space between his full pink lips when they had parted in response. You remember what he'd said. Of course it wasn't what he'd meant; you'd been speaking of something else, your will to hunt. Even for that, he is the reason. He will always be the reason; he's your world, your everything. And the answer that he'd given, then, no matter the question... it's what you will always be to him.

_Nothing._

 

__

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this!! With or without that most twisted kink :P
> 
> I've generally always liked Jo in the show, but I hated how she acted at the end of this episode. It just didn't make sense to me — lashing out at Dean Fucking Winchester in all his divine perfection, for something that he himself hadn't even done?? So I think her reaction makes a ton more sense if there's some other subliminal explanation... this is the one that I've imagined ;)
> 
> Much love to you all! Always grateful for kudos and comments <3


	29. (S02E07) Long Walks on the Beach and Frisky Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 7 ("The Usual Suspects")*
> 
> *In which you are Detective Diana Ballard*
> 
> His name is Dean Winchester. He's under arrest, and he's fucking perfect, and he's got a confession to make.
> 
> Apparently, he likes his women frisky. So tonight, that's what you're gonna be. You're not at the beach, but still... Dean can walk all over you, for as long as it takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii Deanbitches! Sorry I haven't updated in such a long time!! I've been busier lately with real life, as well as my other fics... For those who haven't seen and might be interested, I just recently started a new one: Dean Winchester - House of Worship.
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy this scene! Naturally, since Jo isn't in this one, it goes in a bit of a different direction, in terms of emotions (or lack thereof). I love writing scenes with Dean having feelings, but I also love writing about him doing the whole meaningless sex thing :D
> 
> As a heads up, this scene has some boot-licking and trampling and that kind of thing. In addition to plenty of other kinks :) I know the reader has already worshiped Dean's feet in a lot of the prior chapters, but there's more of a focus on boots/trampling here than before, so just thought I would mention! But if you're not into the sound of that, you might still be able to enjoy other parts of the scene. 
> 
> All righty, happy reading! :)

***Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 7 ("The Usual Suspects")***

***In which you are Detective Diana Ballard***

 

****

 

So this man is suspected of torturing and murdering women. Brutal and bloody, on multiple occasions. The responsible detective that you are, your job is to make sure he's put behind bars, destined to rot his life away in prison. 

But when you walk into this room, where he's all set to give his confession, about savagely slaughtering his latest victim...  _why is it that all you can think is how you want to be the next one?_

You shut off that sick train of thought, as quickly as you can, gulping down the damn gallon of drool on your tongue. No serial killer has any business looking like... like  _this_. Glorious green eyes, chiseled cheekbones, pillowy pink lips. He's sitting there with all the swagger of a stud who knows that he is fucking perfect. That any bitch would literally die to suck his dick.  _Maybe some bitches actually have_ , you think—jumped to their death, for just one lick. And you wouldn't blame them for it.  _Not one bit._  

In any event, you know one thing: no criminal has any legal right to look like that. No man on earth, in fact. Needless to say, he is quite the... unusual suspect. 

Even more unusual is what he's about to confess.

"My name is Dean Winchester," he begins, and as those stunning eyes stare straight into the camera lens, just the statement of his name sounds like an X-rated flirtation. "I'm an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach... and frisky women."

 _Holy shit_ — _what is this evil bastard even doing..._ whatever it is, it's hitting you right in the clit. Dean goes on to say the murder victim, Karen Giles, was supposedly slain by some vengeful spirit. Some Casper the bloodthirsty ghost bullshit. On some level, you're hearing everything, but mostly you're just trying to forget that playful smirk that flicked across his flawless features when he mentioned frisky women. Struggling not to soak through your panties and combust in a spontaneous orgasm. 

At one point, the other detective in the room—your partner Pete Sheridan—gets pissed, beyond fed up with all the nonsense. Grabs Dean by the scruff and shoves him up against the wall, all hard and rough. 

"Pete, that is  _enough_!" you instinctively react, urging him to pull back. No way in hell you're gonna let him leave a scratch on such a perfect piece of ass.

You've been screwing around with Pete for some time now, so you know how much he gets off on playing tough. Mostly to overcompensate for how his package doesn't size up.  _Whereas Dean..._ you don't doubt that his does. You've stayed in this relationship with Pete despite the guy's  _short_ comings—so to speak—because he tries, at least, to satisfy your kinks. Most men you've met are wimps; at least your partner makes attempts to do the whole dominant thing. You've told yourself that it's sufficient, even if his dick's deficient. 

But now that you've laid eyes on Dean, the most delicious hunk of dominance that you have ever seen... you know exactly what you're missing.

 _Apparently, so does Pete_ , you think, noticing how your partner's hungry eyes are devouring Dean up and down like a slice of banana cream pie. Dean's banana must be so big, his cream so sweet and rich, that just one bite of him could turn any guy bi. Somehow, even when he's pinned against the wall, in a position of submission, he still radiates pure power; doesn't even have to try. Pete's aggressive show of violence must've just been an effort to fight the urge to be of service to this absolute Adonis—just as you so wish— _to drop down to the floor, kneel like a whore between Dean's strong, muscular thighs..._

Before it can come to that, Pete lets go of the suspect, soon enough. He turns to leave, huffing out an order to the security guard in an exaggerated gesture of disgust. "Lock his ass up."

 _More like lick his ass up_ , you think in silence. That's what you and your partner both want to be doing. But you don't give a shit what Pete wants. Nor even what you yourself want. Your sole purpose in life is to worship this god—if you even get the chance, before he's hauled off to some prison, or a lunatic asylum, after that deranged confession. You should be terrified of him... and yet you're not. You're just desperate to serve him as his kinky little cunt. Like all the frisky women Dean Winchester ever fucked. 

All you can think is how you need to be the next one.

 

***************

 

You try to focus on your actual job, for a bit. To clear your head of all these shameful thoughts about fucking a goddamned murder suspect. For a little while, you do a real good job of it. Forcing yourself to think of anything and everything other than hot kinky sex with him. Hell, you'd even rather think about that spooky incident this afternoon, from right before you'd gone in Dean's interrogation room, when your computer had gotten possessed to start typing some random repetitive nonsense.  _Dana Shulps_ or something. You could've sworn Dean had referred to that exact name as an anagram, during his confession, though you were so distracted by his fine ass that you must've just imagined it. 

But then, later on, you get attacked by a ghostly pale bitch with red eyes in the bathroom. Which can only mean one of two things: either you've gone so insane with lust that you're straight up hallucinating... or, worse yet, you just had your first encounter with— _what was the term that Dean had called it?_ —oh, a vengeful spirit.

Either way, there's only one solution. You obviously have to go and talk to him.

"Can we make this quick?" the sex god says when you walk in. The way he's so dismissive of your presence is a total fucking turn-on, which is utterly pathetic, but he's perfect, so it's really not your fault. "I'm a little tired—it's been a long day, you know, with your partner assaulting me and all."

 _Yes, of course, sir_ , your inner slut responds.  _Whatever you want. Why don't you assault me instead. Punish me for existing and for being so inferior. Please, Master, I would be so very grateful for the punishment._

Thankfully for your remaining shreds of dignity, you keep that to yourself. Instead you ask for him to tell you more about that vengeful spirit stuff.

And so he does. Explains how these creatures can come into being, what motivates them. It's clear that he's completely serious, while telling you all this; he's cool, calm and collected, as if it makes perfect sense. And then he notices the bruises on your wrists. The marks that the ghost in the bathroom had left. He knows you've met the spirit. Which apparently means, based on what Dean has seen... that you're doomed to drop dead any minute.

"You need to go to Sam," he says. "He'll help."

 _What?_ The other Winchester just recently escaped from the room where he had been held.  _So now Dean is about to tell you where Sam went? What the hell...?_ "You're giving your brother up."

Whatever he's doing, he doesn't stop. "Go to the first motel listed in the yellow pages," he instructs. "Look for Jim Rockford; it's how we find each other when we're separated. Now you can arrest him if you want... or you can let him save your life."

You pause and stare into his eyes. But not too long, or else the stunning beauty will be sure to strike you blind and leave you paralyzed. Before you follow his advice, the officer inside of you decides you should try to put up a fight.

So you make your bad cop game face, steely gaze and scowling lips, and place your hands upon your hips. "And why should I trust  _you_ , a likely psychopathic murder suspect, with my life? Give me one reason why."

His luscious lips curve up into a smirk. It's obvious that all your efforts to resist his charms won't work. "What can I say—I'm an honest guy. I gave a hell of a confession, didn't I?" 

 _Fuck_. The naughty tone that's entering his deep voice sets a fire in your veins and starts a flood between your thighs... 

Dean leans in across the table, elbows braced against the surface as he looks you in the eye. "I can go on, you know. Why don't I tell you more about the kinds of frisky women that I like..."

"Oh, save it," you snap, desperate to prevent him from starting something like  _that_. It would just end up giving you a goddamn heart attack. "Tell me something serious, wise-ass."

The suspect chuckles and leans back. Both of you know that his ass is way more than just wise. "All right. Well, like I said—I didn't kill Karen Giles. But I... may have paid her a visit last night... and committed—um... some other crimes. You know, the  _frisky_  kind."

Then he winks, and it feels like your pussy just whimpered and died.

You try to keep your cool; you really try, but it's hard when you've never been so wet in all your life. Nonetheless, the detective in you can't ignore what he has just implied. "Are you saying—Mr. Winchester, did... did you force yourself on a grieving wife?" 

Dean arches his brows in a look of mock surprise.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you shake your head and huff a sigh. "Never mind. You couldn't rape a woman even if you tried."

The arch in his brow sharpens, steep and high. "Oh, really? Mind telling me why?"

You shrug, still struggling not to melt beneath the dark heat of his eyes. "You know. You're just, um... not that kind of guy."

"Yeah? Then what kind of guy am I?" Dean challenges, flicking his tongue between his teeth, the pink flesh stark against the straight, pearly white edges. His keen green gaze reads deep inside your mind. "I see. You're thinking I'm so damn fine I could never be denied."

At that, you have to laugh, and move across the room, turning your back to him. It's your only defense against your carnal instincts, of crawling right under the table to bury your face in his ass or start sucking his dick. "You cocky little son of a bitch..."

His own laugh, rumbling from his throat in reply, is much stronger than yours. Steady and self-assured. Just the sound of it scratches your every last itch. "Oh, I'm cocky all right..." he confirms with a smile. "But there ain't nothing little about it."

_Ugh God, you don't doubt it._

Before you can pounce on his cock— _not that you would've, definitely not_ —he keeps on talking. "So what else can I confess," he casually says. "Let's see, uh... I'm a fan of AC/DC... drive a '67 Chevy... oh, I like to pee on women during sex..."

Those words practically make you pee your damn self. You choke on your own spit. Try and of course fail to dismiss it, brushing off your sudden coughing fit, awfully ungracefully. " _Excuse me_?"

"Excuse you for what?" he taunts. "For getting off just at the sound of that? Being a kinky little slut?"

 _Fuck. Holy fuck..._ you no longer have the ability to talk.

"Aw, come on, officer—don't tell me you ain't soaking wet. There's a reason you're not leaving this room yet..."

Despite your slipping grip on sanity, you try to cling on to your dignity, the few remaining shreds. "Yes, there is. It's because you're the only person here who seems to know about this ghost that wants me dead."

"Hey, I already told you—my brother can help. So tell me, detective... why haven't you left?" he asks, killing you with each word that he says. "Why don't you just confess those dirty thoughts that you've got running through your head."

In a moment of panic then, you somehow summon the strength to escape, heading straight toward the door. Muttering a few last words, under your breath. "You are seriously something else..."

"Whoa—skipping out after the foreplay, before the hot sex? What's the matter, you don't fuck your suspects? Suit yourself..." Dean teases, throwing you a knowing smirk just before the door closes. 

He knows you'll be begging for him to fuck you to pieces, soon enough. He knows it all too well.

 

***************

 

By the end of the night, the Winchesters—two brothers suspected of serial murder—have indeed saved your damn life. And you've returned the favor, saving them. Out here in the middle of the woods, where Pete had driven Dean with the intention of killing him in cold blood... instead, Officer Sheridan himself ended up dead. When shit hit the fan, you chose Dean over him. Shot your long-time boyfriend in the back, to protect Dean's fine ass. And you'd do it all over again. 

Apparently, the ghost that you'd seen earlier was some kind of death omen. After this recent series of events, her soul should finally be at rest. Pete Sheridan, the wannabe dom with the small dick, was the only real villain, through all of this. And now he's a corpse in the forest.

As you and the Winchesters stand in silence for a few seconds, processing all of the shit that just happened, Dean looks at you and then casts his brother an expectant glance. "Hey, Sam—can you, um... give us a moment?"

 _Well, that's... promising_ , you think. 'Cause in a super twisted way, the sight of Pete dead at your feet has made you even hungrier for Dean's delicious dick. It's like the world's most morbid cuckold kink.  _You really are completely sick._

Sam grumbles something, rolls his eyes, but he's too tired to put up a fight. He seems like Dean's obedient bitch of a brother, besides; in the short time you've spent with these two guys, you've gotten that vibe.

So Sam skulks off, to sulk somewhere deep in the forest. Which means it's finally time for you and Dean to have hot kinky sex. Back at the station, you'd been trying to resist— _but out here in the dark, in the wild_... your darkest and wildest desires will not be dismissed.

"So, officer—what do you think?" Dean asks once you two are alone, running his tongue suggestively across his lips. "After all this freaky shit that just happened, do you, uh... believe my confession?"

You smile and swoon. "Yeah, I do. And you know something, Mr. Winchester... I like long walks on the beach, too."

"Oh, do you?" he croons, taking two steps closer, the twigs and branches underfoot crackling beneath his heavy boots. You envy them for that—yes, you are jealous of the crap beneath his shoes. It's twisted, but it's true. And from the naughty smirk upon his face, he seems to know it, too. "Well, this ain't exactly Malibu. But we can still, you know... 'walk'... as  _long_  as you want to."

 _Shit_ , you think— _he looks even hotter out here in the woods_. "Good," you murmur, admiring the way the moonlight silhouettes the broad frame of his shoulders, its silver glow reflected in his green eyes as they smolder. "Because I like it  _long_. See, I'm a frisky woman. So you can just...  _walk_  all over me, for as long as it takes."

Another stick beneath his shoe breaks, and the splintering sound of it makes your pussy ache. And he can see it written all across your face. "Mmm. Sounds like a plan, you kinky little skank." 

You start collapsing, when he says that, falling forward into him, suddenly feeling faint. It seems you've lost the strength to keep yourself standing up straight.

Dean catches you, strong hands framing your waist, holding up your full body weight, keeping you just a few inches away. "Wait—just, um... don't go falling in love with me or anything, okay?"

You crinkle your brows.  _That's a strange thing to say._ For a second, you study his face, but his steely expression gives nothing away. There's a shadow of pain, and a sea of self-hate, but... you're not sure why those issues mean that Dean can't let himself be loved.  _Maybe he's getting over someone? Recovering from some recent love affair gone wrong?_  It's not your place to wonder, but you do. 

One thing, at least, is clearly true: whatever baggage may be burdening this dude, he's not about to add to that, tonight with you. He really isn't in the mood.

"Just... just  _don't_ ," he repeats, vehemently. "Bitches who do tend to get screwed."

Your head bobs in a nod, even though you honestly don't know whether you can abide by those orders or not.  _How could anyone not fall in love with this heartbreakingly gorgeous face...?_  But he needs you to obey, so that's what you say. "Okay. Though I'm pretty sure that getting screwed is what all of us want from you..."

He smirks and bites his bottom lip, glad to stop speaking of the whole love thing, turning everything back in a flirty and dirty direction. "Yeah? So, uh... what hole do you want me to screw, detective?"

"All of them," you respond on the instant. " _Please_. I'll take whatever you give..."

"Greedy bitch," he grunts, pulling you closer in, balmy breath fanning over your skin, sending shockwaves of bliss to your dripping wet cunt. "Pick just one. That's all you're gonna get."

 _Fucking shit_... that was not what you'd thought, based on how he'd said you two could 'walk' for as long as you want. You're beyond disappointed. "But you said—"

And that's when Dean slaps you, his palm crashing onto your cheek, leaving blush where it lands. "Shut the fuck up," he commands. "You're only getting one. 'Cause back at the station, you were a cheeky little cunt. Having to pick a single hole to take this big dick— _that's_  your punishment. You understand?"

Every word from his lips seals your fate as his bitch, as a slave to this god of a man. "Yes, sir," you whisper desperately. "Thank you, sir, for punishing me..."

"Mmm, look at that—so goddamn obedient all of a sudden," he laughs, one of the hands upon your hips shifting to smack your ass, the other trailing smoothly up your back. "So what hole do you want, hm? What's it gonna be?"

You need Dean in  _all_ your holes, badly... but in one more than all the others. From the moment you'd met him, set eyes upon his flawless face, you've been shamelessly imagining just how good he must taste, and you're utterly dying of hunger. "My mouth, sir. P-please..."

His hands have shifted further upward, both gripping your shuddering shoulders. His sturdy fingers hold you up where you stand, for a second, knowing how hard you're bound to fall when they release. In sync with the words that he speaks next, so fiercely, so dominantly. "Then get down on your fucking knees."

You sink into kneeling position the instant his hands leave your body. On instinct, you smash your face into the crotch of his jeans, groaning in ecstasy as his rich, musky scent fills your senses completely. One hit and you're already high. Your frantic hands reach to fumble with his belt buckle, unzip his fly...

But Dean swats them away, like _you're_  the fly. Grabs a fistful of your messy hair in his left hand, slaps your face again with his right, causing your dizzy skull to swivel to the side.

"Did I say you could take out my dick?" he puckers his perfect lips, aims at your forehead, and spits. "Such a greedy pig. So fucking  _stupid_."

Then he smears the thick wad of saliva all over your skin, laughing savagely while you moan in bliss, soaking it in. Your moans grow even louder when he aims the next shot straight into your gaping mouth, letting you swallow down the sweet gooey fluid. You apologize for all your sins while basking in your punishment. "I'm so sorry, sir, for being such a pig... Thank you for spitting on me, sir—I fucking love it..."

Dean snickers in disgust and shakes his head. " _Damn_ , you're pathetic. You know—you don't even belong on your knees, bitch. That position is a privilege. You'd be better off groveling down on the ground like a sad piece of shit."

 _Holy mother of God_ —it feels as if those words have set off an atomic bomb right on your clit. "Y-yes, Master, I know it..." you sigh in submission as you shift position, lowering yourself toward the ground. You realize now that you're not sure if he wants you face-up or face-down...

"On your back, slut," he grunts, in response to your unspoken question, dealing a sharp kick to your gut. "Eyes open. Look up."

You already are— _how could you_ not  _look up, in the presence of such a fucking perfect god?_ —but it feels so much better, hotter, when he orders you to do it, good and hard.

Once you're flat on your back, Dean plants his feet firmly on either side of your body. Smirks down at the sight of you gawking up at him so worshipfully. "Mmm. You like this, bitch? Like being beneath me?" he teases. "You know, I could tell how much it got you off, just watching me walk. The sound of all those sticks and stones just...  _cracking_ , getting  _crushed_ under my feet..."

You find yourself utterly unable to speak, as Dean's green eyes skim over you devilishly. Though you're still fully clothed, you're sure he can see straight through your panties, right into your soaking wet pussy.

"Is that what you wanna be?" he asks wickedly, shifting his weight so that a fallen branch snaps underneath his shoe, somewhere right next to you. He asks just for the sake of the abuse, when he already knows it's true. "The scum of the fucking earth? A piece of dirt for me to walk all over?"

 _Hoooly... holy..._ all you can manage are pathetic moans and whimpers.

Your stupefied silence is not what he asked for. He reminds you of that, with his actions as well as his words; some of your hair has spread out over the dirt around your head, so he stomps down onto a clump of it, grinding it into the ground until the roots tug at your scalp, until it hurts. "Dumb fucking whore. Your master demanded an answer."

"Y-yes, sir..." you choke out, the reply falling sloppily out of your mouth. "Yes, Master,  _please_... please step on me..."

"Mmm, so that's what you want? You kinky fucking  _cunt_ ," he taunts, slowly lifting up one of his shoes, as he towers so powerfully over you. He shifts until the underside of the toe of his boot brushes right up against your wet lips. "Like this? Go on, give it a kiss. That's a good little bitch."

Groaning in bliss, you press your lips passionately into the soiled shoe that's right in front of you. "Mmmph, thank you, sir... you're so perfect..."

"And you're a worthless piece of shit," Dean spits, the two of you both getting off on just how painfully true it is. He switches to the other foot on your lips, snickering as he watches you slobber French kisses all over it. Then he shifts, toe of his boot moving under your chin, over your neck, drawing a line down toward your cleavage. "What next, bitch? You want me to trample these tits?"

" _Yes_...!" you gasp, sharply arching your back as his sole presses down on your chest.

He isn't stepping on you hard enough, though—not yet—and then, next thing you know, his foot is pulling off of you, which would feel like the end of the world if you didn't realize that he was just leaning down to strip you naked.  _Which makes total sense. Of course you should feel the divine sting of Dean's degradation upon your bare skin._

He manhandles you for a moment, ripping off all your clothes in a flash like they're nothing, and throws you down onto the ground again. You wince as the twigs and rocks scattered all over the forest floor scrape at your back, but you love how they cut and scratch, scoring your skin with the scars from this night of hot sex that you won't ever want to forget, making marks that you sure hope will last.

Your master reads your mind, as ever, as your body quakes in pleasure. "You got a thing for pain, you dirty little whore?" he growls, the low husky tone of his voice filling you to your sluttiest core. "Then here's some more."

All the air rushes out of your lungs as his big, heavy foot stomps down hard on your neck, sending you to heaven with the sudden loss of breath. He's stepping on you  _hard_ , enough to get you seeing stars, just short of snapping your damn throat. You love the way Dean makes you choke; you don't want him to ever stop, until you suffocate to death...

When he finally lifts off, it's to punish your tits with a series of rough, brutal kicks. Then he steps on those, too, trampling your chest just as he'd promised, then stomping all over your stomach. The sticks and stones scraping beneath your back, as you keep squirming in arousal from the force of Dean's attack, are probably starting to draw blood. And that's just as you like it, being such a sick fucking painslut. Your pussy's so wet that if Dean keeps on going, this whole goddamned forest will probably flood.

"Look at you, slut," he grunts, one of his boots suddenly stepping down directly onto your dripping cunt. "Pussy leaking all over the place... dirt all over your body, your face... Is this how you like to be treated, you sick little skank? Like you're a fucking  _toy_  that was just made for me to  _break_?"

" _God_ yes— _yes_ , Master..." you breathlessly state. "I'm your little fucktoy, to use and destroy..."

"What makes you think I wanna hear that stupid fucking voice," he growls, shifting to bring his boot down on your open mouth. "Don't wanna hear you make a goddamn sound. You need some cock to shut you up now?"

Your eager screams are muffled by the shoe that's still violently smothering you, pushing your head harder into the ground.

"Hmm. Know you want it, dirty pig. But first I gotta get you all cleaned up before I let you suck this dick," Dean tells you as he reaches to undo his jeans. From the deviant look on his dominant face, you already know what's coming next. "Told you I like to pee on bitches during sex..."

 _Fuck yes. Fuck yes._ His foot lifts away from your face, then, so he can straddle your shoulders and take his aim. At the sight of the huge throbbing cock that he's finally got in his hands, you just came so damn hard that you've probably forgotten your name.  _Which is fine, as you won't ever need it again._  From now on you only exist as Dean Winchester's subhuman slave.

You gape your mouth open so wide you can feel your jaw break.  _You're just dying of thirst, aching for that sweet taste..._ and it feels like you're dying of bliss when Dean's hot golden piss finally splashes all over your lips, droplets spraying and splattering on every inch of your filthy whore face. But most of it lands where you want: on your wet hungry tongue, flooding up your whole mouth in a matter of seconds. You gulp and gasp, guzzling down all his glorious juices as fast as you possibly can. His piss tastes like pure gold, the sweet bitter liquid so rich with his essence, the fine divine flavor of this fucking god of a man.

"Ugh,  _shit_ —yeah, just like this," he coaxes, shooting down a bit to soak your tits, then back up to your panting lips. "Drink it all up, you pathetic little bitch..."

Drunk from the arousal of serving as Dean's personal urinal, you gargle something through your next mouthful of piss, garbled noises that end up sounding like praises in some underwater language.

" _God_ , you're disgusting," he scoffs. "Think it's high time I shut you up, slut. You wanna suck on this big dick?"

At that, you nod so frantically that some of the piss on your tongue sloshes out past your lips. It's a sin, and you hate yourself for it. But you want his cock so badly that you can't even control your body's spastic, messy movements...

"Well, I don't give a shit what you want, you worthless little cunt," Dean states, dealing a kick to the side of your piss-soaked face.  _But he does start pulling down his pants_... you soon realize why, as he turns where he's standing and starts squatting over your mouth, framing your head between his meaty thighs. His massive cock is aiming down over your body, as he settles into position. "Why don't you lick my sweaty ass, slut. Yeah, just like that... get deep in there with your filthy fucking tongue..."

If anything could possibly taste better than the gallons of fresh piss that you've just swallowed from the tap, the liquid gold that fed your throat and filled your soul... it's Dean Winchester's fucking  _perfect_  asshole. His sweat-slick crack smothers your nose as you lovingly French kiss his sphincter and then shove your tongue in as far as it goes.  _God_ , you think, overwhelmed with the feeling of pure fucking heaven— _this man is even more of a god than he knows..._

And as if you're not blissed out enough already, Dean decides then, from this position, to start pissing yet again, all over your body. Showering you down while you worship his wondrous ass with your worthless whore mouth.

Listening to him continue to talk down at you, vocally getting off on everything that's happening, reminding you of his delicious dominance, just heightens your sensations of submissive bliss. "That's it, bitch. You like this? So fucking pathetic. Yeah, suck on my ass while I soak you in piss..."

By this point you're so deep in subspace that it feels like you're barely conscious. You still are, of course—Dean would never carry on with this, if you weren't—but your state of existence is just... something  _different_. He does end up letting you suck his huge dick, once he's done drenching you in sweet piss. He even lets you lick all over his big, bulging balls and his hot, sweaty armpits, and kicks off his boots so you can taste his feet, sucking each beautiful toe of his in a long, deep French kiss. By the end of it, the incredible flavor of Dean is all over your desperate lips. You gaze up at his gorgeous face in reverence when he finally comes, thick ropes of pearly white glory all over your mouth and your tits.  _So this is how it feels_ , you think in silence, _to submit to someone who was born to be dominant. This is what it means to worship._

You wish that this worship session would never fucking end. Or at least that Dean would deign to fuck your other holes— _your tight ass, your dripping wet cunt_... but then again, he had told you that getting screwed in just one hole was your punishment. So you don't complain or beg him for anything else—you just  _can't_ —watching him as he comes down from his intense climax, chest heaving beautifully with each deep breath he pants, casually wiping stray beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, as he rises to stand.

" _Fuck_. Thanks for that. And um—you're welcome, I guess," he sighs with a wide beaming smile, evidently content, thoroughly satisfied. Just the way he deserves to be, all the damn time.  _Surely this kind of sex, filthy and kinky and totally meaningless—well, at least without any emotions on his end—is what he likes best_ , you reflect _. Right?_  For a sex god like him, surely that would make sense...

Yet somehow you doubt it. Dean likes this kind of sex a  _lot_ , no doubt about it, and he'll tell himself that he doesn't need anything else. But he's got more heart than he will ever admit. He's been in love—hell, maybe he still is—and he can't fight that fact by just going around randomly fucking frisky bitches.

Regardless, you know you can't stop him from carrying on like this. He can't even stop himself.  _And why should anybody stop him, when he does it so damn well._

Once you've both thrown all your clothes back on, Dean looks down at Officer Sheridan, where he still lies, dead as a doornail nearby. The bastard had it coming, for more reasons than one. You don't even feel bad, about what you've done. You feel kind of...  _good_  about it, even. Pete was a corrupt, cold-blooded sack of scum who had murdered his own closest friends. Killing him was like redemption for all those times you shouldn't have slept with him, let alone given yourself to him in sexual submission.  _God, he had really,_ really _sucked as a dom..._

"Hey, um—you wanna know the real reason your dead ex-boyfriend tried to kill me?" Dean asks, his effortlessly dominant voice breaking beautifully through your unpleasant thoughts. You nod in response, and he goes on. "It was 'cause I rejected him. Poor bastard couldn't take it; he went crazy. When he drove me out in that truck all alone at 2 A.M., it was to beg for kinky sex. He got down on his knees and started praising me for being so damn beautiful, so perfect. Told me how desperate he was to suck my dick and lick my ass and even eat my shit."

After the way Pete had assaulted Dean, back in the interrogation room, that sudden attack fraught with homoerotic tension... you're not all that shocked, honestly.  _Well, except maybe for that last bit._ You look scornfully down at Pete, taking pleasure in talking shit about him, now that he's dead. "Wow. That's so pathetic."

Dean shakes his head in disgust. "Yeah, isn't it? Sick son of a bitch, would've sold his goddamned soul to get a taste. He tried to kiss my boots and I just kicked him in the face. I think he came."

You huff a laugh, although you kind of sympathize with Pete, for that at least. "Yeah, well he can't really be blamed..."

Dean quietly echoes your laugh; he gets it. Knows that in Pete's shoes, you would've done the same. Lots of girls—and guys—would have. But that doesn't mean you two can't keep on trash-talking the dead scumbag. "So  _that_  was the last dom you had?" Dean asks. He knows you and your partner had been sleeping together, and he rightly gathers that you were Pete's sub in bed, based on that fact. His pretty mouth turns down into a playful yet sincerely pitiful pout. "How sad."

You cringe, grimacing through an awkward laugh. "Yeah. It was pretty fucking bad..."

Dean nods and bites his lip. "Did, uh... did this make up for it?"

He's obviously speaking of your recent session. Which means it's a ridiculously rhetorical question. "D'you  _really_  have to ask?" you grumble, rolling your eyes at him. Just the memory of being dominated by Dean gets you squirming in pleasure. "The only problem is that... well. You've ruined future sex for me for basically forever."

He chuckles and shrugs his broad shoulders. "Sorry not sorry. That's what you get when you screw with Dean Winchester."

"Cocky bastard," you mutter, though you know that he has every right, every reason to be, when his cock is God's gift to women. "Guess you can't really help it, when you're always on the receiving end."

He tilts his head, pretending not to know what you just meant. "Of what?"

Now it's your turn to shrug. "You know. Worship, devotion, submission and all that stuff... Love."

He winces and averts his gaze, at that last word, as if it hurt. "Right," he sighs, pushing down the pain. Or at least he tries. Always does. "Shit might get complicated if I ever loved anyone back. Good thing I never have."

The detective in you is glad that, based on what you can see, Dean seemingly hasn't yet caught on to the fact that you're talking like this to test how he reacts. You're just... curious. About this deep look on his face. Curious how he'll take the next thing you say. "No bitch could ever deserve your love anyway."

"Hey, you don't know that," he furiously snaps. 

 _Yup_ , you think with an inner fist pump, a moment of self-indulgent triumph.  _He fell right into your trap_. You had felt pretty confident that he was in love with someone, but know you're dead certain.

Dean said too much, and he realizes it now. Hates himself for having spastically opened his mouth. "I mean—um. Yeah."

Ugh, he's so goddamn adorable like this—all embarrassed, self-conscious.  _So fucking precious._ Your comforting urges kick in; you almost feel bad for having baited him. "It's okay, Dean. Just forget I said anything. But... you know who  _does_  deserve your love?" 

He blinks and looks up. Curious.

Reaching to hold one of his hands, you bring it up toward your lips, to leave an innocent little kiss on his palm. Then you press that kissed palm against his own chest, over the heart that so powerfully drums. "Your fine-ass self. You should give some."

Dean pauses for only the slightest fraction of a second. Then he snorts and shakes his head, shifting his hand out from beneath yours to move it away from his chest. "What makes you think I don't love myself...?" he protests, a sad attempt at self-defense.

It breaks your heart, to see his own so desperately denied. "Dean. I'm a  _detective_ ," you remind him. "And I'm not blind. But hey—it's your life, not mine."

There's an answer to that, hiding somewhere behind his green eyes. But it's buried too deep inside for either one of you to find. 

So you just finish what you'd begun saying. This is how your time with Dean will have to end. "Your choice, if you want to go on hiding from your own self-hatred all the time, drowning your sorrows in screwing with frisky women. As for me, I... I'm just glad to have been one of them."

At least that draws a little smile out of him. So that's a win. As always, you'll just take whatever you can get from Dean, whatever he will give.

One of the last things that he gives before he leaves is a dumb pun, about the sex that you've just had. As in, like... really,  _really_  dumb. But that's how Dean keeps shit light, in his life—by cracking jokes and making fun. You love the pun, for being dumb. Because, well... you love him. Against the orders that he'd given, you've fallen madly in love him, and you know you will be for as long as you live.  _How could anyone not, after getting walked on by such a beautiful fucking god...?_

And that's what the pun is about. It's fifty shades of stupid, and you love it. "Well—I'd said that I like long walks on the beach and frisky women, but um... after my time with  _this_  frisky woman?" Dean says, meaning you, of course, flashing a flirty wink and blessing your cheek with a loveless goodbye kiss. "I guess it's more like long walks on the  _bitch_."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this!! :)
> 
> Always grateful for kudos and comments <3


	30. (S02E08) Some Sort of Porn Site?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 8 ("Crossroad Blues")*
> 
> *In which you are Carly, the girl who gives Dean her Myspace address*
> 
> So Dean thinks that Myspace is some sort of porn site.
> 
> Soon enough, he'll learn that he's wrong about that—but tonight... you'll also prove him right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiii Deanbitches! Sooo I had thought I might be sort of running out of fun new kinks (let me know if you have ideas for any other ones — I'm sure they exist and I'm just not thinking of them!!)... but anyway, then I got the idea for this scene and writing it was a ton of fun :D
> 
> This chapter explores the kink of starring with Dean in a sex tape/porn. Something I feel like I would never do in real life but totally love to imagine!! (Like most of the stuff in this fic lol...)
> 
> I wanted to use "some sort of porn site" as the title and first gif, so the reader is the character who gives Dean her Myspace address... but in this episode I also thought Dean had great chemistry with that sexy crossroads demon and really enjoyed their scenes. So I thought of a way to have the reader play both roles! You'll see what I mean ;)

***Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 8 ("Crossroad Blues")***

***In which you are Carly, the girl who gives Dean her Myspace address***

 

 

"Secretary's name is Carly," Dean tells his brother as he slides into the driver's seat. The car is parked outside the local Animal Protection Agency, where Dean just interviewed you in the lobby. He also takes the liberty of telling Sammy all the most important intel: like your age, your hobbies, certain parts of your body...

Sam just tries to ignore it and focus on business. Asks if you had anything to say about black dogs and all that bullshit. 

Dean brusquely answers the question, handing over the list of relevant info that you'd printed. Then he reaches to tear off the special note you'd left him, scrawled onto a post-it. "And, uh... I don't know what this thing is."

Taking the pale yellow square in his own hand, Sam chuckles out loud when he reads it. "You mean Carly's Myspace address?"

"Yeah, Myspace—what the hell is that?" Dean asks in genuine confusion as his kid brother huffs out another laugh. Then a thought crosses his dirty mind. He flashes a bright smile, with a naughty little twinkle in his eye. "Seriously, is that like, some sort of porn site?"

 _God, hopefully it is_ , he thinks,  _'cause that Carly chick was mad hot._  He'll learn soon that it's not. 

But that's all right. Won't stop you two from making some hot, hardcore porn of your own tonight.

 

***************

 

"What... how did I get here?" you whimper, reeling from the ringing in your ears. You've woken from the weirdest dream to find yourself out in the dark, at some old crossroad, fallen on your hands and knees. It was a nightmare straight out of a horror movie, with a demon taking control of your body, riding in your skin and then escaping from your mouth in an outburst of black smoke and screams. Needless to say, you're straight up freaked.

But when you look up at the face of the stranger standing before you... you realize that he's not a stranger, and those terrifying scenes were not a dream.

This guy, whom you recognize well from real life, was the only good part of those scenes. It's  _him_ : the walking hunk of sex named Dean. The same flawless Adonis who had shown up at your office just this afternoon. His is a face you won't ever forget—from the moment you met him, you knew. He had been stopping by the agency for business purposes, supposedly, clad in a clean spiffy suit. Business hadn't stopped him from shamelessly getting his flirt on with you. He isn't dressed as fancy now, but he looks even  _better_ like this, if you had to choose. More in his element, all rough and rugged, in his jeans and leather jacket, heavy-duty boots...

He's so motherfucking gorgeous that you sit there gawking up at him in silence, awestruck by his blinding beauty in the darkness. Pretty much all you can do.

"...Carly?" Dean murmurs as he comes close and squats down next to you. The fact that this sex god remembers your name, from earlier today, is sending giddy shockwaves through your brain. So is the feeling of his skin upon yours, as he places a steadying hand on your shoulder, his heat of his touch coursing all through your veins. "Hey—hey, you're okay. You're gonna be okay."

 _Yeah, and I'd be a lot more okay if you'd please fuck my face_ , you think to yourself in a dazed, horny haze. You remember kissing him, hot and wet on those plump perfect lips, while possessed by the demon— _and if it is true that you hadn't been dreaming_... well, then. You two obviously have to finish what you started, while that sick demonic bitch was in your skin. Can't just cut the scene after the foreplay.

But before you can say or do anything, you suddenly feel faint. All your limbs going limp, falling down toward the hard ground all over again... but this time, it's not the dusty road that catches you. It's Dean. Before all your consciousness drains, you feel him lift you in his big strong arms, your full weight resting on his frame as he brings you toward his car.  _Is he taking you home with him?_  He better be, and if so— _well, when the damsel in distress is swept off of her feet, carried to safety by the strapping handsome hero..._  there's only one way for that story to go. It's like something straight out of a fairytale porno.

No doubt Dean loves porn just as much as your kinky ass does. Somehow you just know. You wonder if he's ever been on the other end, though. Starred in one of his own. You have, for one—nothing pro, just a few raunchy amateur videos, flicks that you and some of your ex-boyfriends were once brave enough or drunk enough to post. No one else even knows.

It's your dirty little secret... but you won't be keeping it for long, once you and Dean get home.

 

***************

 

 _That demon bitch was damn good at one thing_ , Dean has to admit to himself: good at picking a vessel. She had chosen all too well. Hopping a ride inside of you, a girl Dean knew—or sort of knew, from your brief encounter this afternoon— _a girl that he hasn't yet fucked but is incredibly attracted to_... well, it was a hell of a way to seduce. As he drives far away from the crossroad, he can't help but remember how good it had felt when the demon had suddenly pulled him in for a long passionate kiss, shoved her tongue down his throat...

Till then, Dean hadn't thought he was the kind of guy who would ever enjoy being violated with demon tongue.  _Hot damn, had he been wrong_. When the creature was wearing your skin, that kind of thing was a huge fucking turn-on.

While he carries on with his dirty thoughts, you stay unconscious during the entire ride to the motel. It's only once the Impala is parked outside that he can hear you stirring, saying something in a soft little mumble, disoriented as hell. "Mmmn—w-where..."

Dean turns to face you where you're curled up in the backseat, and he's hardly surprised to see that you look super pretty even with your bleary eyes and messy hair. "Morning, sunshine. You feeling all right?"

Your head bobs slowly up and down twice. "Where... I..."

He nods at this shabby establishment where he has parked his ride. "This is where I'm staying for the night. You, uh—wanna get some rest, or maybe talk about the weird shit that just went down? I'm sure you're freaked out, but I promise you're safe now. You're welcome inside..."

You blink, shifting slightly on the leather seat to look out the car window. "You staying here alone?"

He bites his lip, then glances at the dimly lit motel room. Through the cheap shades, he can see a tall, shaggy-haired shadow.  _Sammy the cockblock strikes again_ , he reflects with an exasperated groan. "Well, no..."

"Then let's go," you suggest, reaching over the seat to wrap your arms around the driver's neck. Still somewhat groggy from your session of deep, post-possession sleep, you find your senses even dizzier as you get drunk on his intoxicating scent. Musk and sweat, his sweet breath laced with whiskey and coffee and mint. You start jumbling your words as your nose brushes up against the side of his ridiculously gorgeous face, intending to propose that you head over to your place. "Let's g-go to my... myspace..."

Dean lets out a low, chest-rumbling chuckle, at that, the world's sexiest laugh. "Your Myspace, huh?"

"Yeah," you say, inhaling his essence again. "I w-want you all up in my space, big guy. Let's go to my place."

"Oh—" he grunts, voice halting in his throat as you clumsily swing yourself over the seat, till you're beside him in the front. "...'kay. What's your address, babe?"

Burying your head in his lap, you rub your face hungrily all over his denim-covered dick.  _Why is he still asking questions_ , you think.  _You already gave him your Myspace address._ You remind him of this, too far gone to grasp that your response doesn't make any sense."Wrote it on a... post-it..."

" _Shit_..." he sighs as you start going for the prize, hands and mouth right on his fly, using your frantic fingers and ravenous teeth to unzip. All set to downright devour his dick, to fucking worship...

But you don't get very far. Because as soon as you lay eyes upon Dean's cock— _huge as fuck, thick and long and irresistibly rock hard_... you lose all sense of who you are. The sight and smell of it, before you even get a taste, is just too much for you to take, apparently. And your post-possession self needs just a little more recovery, it seems.  _One final round of sleep..._

Dean throws his head back in frustration as your face collapses loosely in his lap. Your parted lips, drooling more than a little bit, are pressed right up against his shaft.  _How the hell is he supposed to drive like that. He doesn't even have an address, damn it_.

"Fuck this shit," he grumbles underneath his breath, slouching deeper into the seat, crossing his arms over his chest. Shuts his eyes for a second, exhausted. He's been through a lot tonight, just like you—after all that crap the demon said about his dad, he can't deny he's got a real bad case of crossroad blues. Maybe he deserves a nap, too...

 

***************

 

Dean wakes up all of a sudden to the feeling of his thick, hot come exploding down your throat. You're taking his cock deep enough to choke, fist wrapped tightly around the base to pump and stroke, moaning in bliss as you guzzle and swallow. He has no clue how long the both of you were sleeping... but you clearly wasted no time once you woke.

When you finally pull off of his dick, wiping the creamy white stuff from your lips, smiling wildly as you lick every last drop right off your fingertips, it's seriously pornographic. Especially when you lift up your head and lean in toward his for a deep, sloppy French kiss. Then let him strip you naked and start sucking on your tits, while his hand reaches down to stick his fingers up your slit and rub his thumb against your clit, before filling up your dripping cunt with his huge dick, already raging hard again, less than a minute since that same dick had been so thoroughly drained...

The car windows are fogging up, a bit, from all your sweaty heavy breathing. But not enough to block the view inside, for anyone who might be passing by. And someone is. Some college kid has been watching through the windshield, and soon he beckons his fraternity brothers to join him, whipping out their phones to snap a few photos and videos, while you and Dean are way too focused on each other to notice. In the throes of bliss, the both of you are totally screaming and moaning loud enough for all the world to hear, so it's no wonder that these peeping perverts did.

You two will find out soon enough that your hot session of car sex had an audience, thanks to the all-seeing power of the internet. But you don't know that just yet. By the time you come back to your senses, the strangers have vanished. You breathlessly tell Dean your address. And he drives off, going way over the speed limit, both of you desperate to get on a proper bed and fuck each other to pieces.

Green eyes wild with excitement for what's coming next, barely able to focus on the road before his car, he asks you straight up just how kinky you are: whether you're down to serve him as his filthy little sex slave, lick his ass and kiss his feet and drink his piss. Though you're a shameless slut—one who has posted sex tapes on the internet—you've actually never tried those kinds of kinks with anyone... but with  _him_ , this absolute god of a man? There's no doubt what the answer is.

With your head still in his lap, you squeeze a gleaming drop of precome from his cock, then suck it sensuously off the tip in a long, loving kiss. " _Fuck_ yes."

 

***************

 

"Umm—Dean...?"

You swallow anxiously, unsure how to tell him what you have just seen. After arriving at your place—and after he fucked you through two explosive, semi-public orgasms in the front doorway—you two had taken a quick break, just a few minutes to check your phones and give your loved ones a brief update, let them know that you are safe. It's the responsible thing to do, given the supernatural shit that just happened to you.

Evidently, having loud sex in his car, in a publicly visible parking spot right in front of his motel... had not been so responsible.

"Yeah?" Dean says, setting down his cell phone on your desk, coming to stand in front of where you're seated on your bed. Part of you is tempted to forget what you've just seen on your own phone screen and rip off his already unzipped jeans— _it's tempting as fuck, when he's towering before you like that, gloriously half-naked..._

Before you can succumb to that temptation, though, Dean cocks his head at the noises coming out of your phone. He hadn't heard them when he'd been standing across the room, as your volume is set pretty low.

He arches his beautiful brows, interest piqued at the X-rated sounds. Not recognizing that these obscene groans are all his and your own. "You, uh—watching a porno?"

"Um... sort of," you mumble, lowering your gaze and handing him your phone.

He takes it. Blinks those gorgeous green eyes of his, a few times, staring at the screen with furrowed brows and parted lips. "Holy fucking shit."

Still seated on the edge of your bed, you uncomfortably shift. "Yeah, it's... pretty intense, isn't it."

Dean can't tear his eyes off of the screen, it seems. You can't blame him, given how damn good he looks in it, honestly. The video ends now and loops back to where it begins, playing on repeat. His eyes go wide as he watches the opening scene. "Damn—whoever the hell took this was totally creeping. This video starts when we're both fucking  _sleeping_."

 _Yeah, and that's the best part_ , you silently think. It's when viewers get the best shot of Dean's big, rock hard, beautiful dick, before you wake up and start sucking it. The creep who filmed this hadn't been afraid of zooming in, capturing every detail right down to the bulging veins along its massive length, the bead of precome at the tip so sweetly glistening...

Dean frowns, then smirks as he starts scrolling down. "Oh, wow. You seen the comments on this thing?"

You had, of course, before you'd handed your phone over to him. This video had first come to your attention because friends—and frenemies—of yours had recognized and then exposed you in the comments section. Having gone viral over the past hour or so, it's now linked to your Myspace and will forever be attached to your name. An eternal claim to pornographic fame.  _Well_ , you tell yourself,  _at least the fact that you'll be known for getting it on with such a gorgeous god is sort of worth a whole lifetime of shame_...

Meanwhile Dean is still caught up in the comments, clearly alarmed and amused. "Talk about an ego boost..." he chuckles to himself as he scrolls through. Which is all kinds of cute.  _What, as if he doesn't already know that he's the most goodlooking thing in all creation and that everyone on earth should pay to kiss his fucking shoes?_

"As if you need one," you remind him, reaching to take your phone back and look through the comments yourself again. In a twisted way, reading live feedback on your candid porno flick—most of it praising the man you were with—is an ego boost for you, too, as the chick who was lucky enough to fuck him. Not to mention a total turn-on...

> _"OMG! Who is he?!?! Soooo fucking hot..."_
> 
> _"That man is an actual sex god!"_
> 
> _"I have never seen such a big, beautiful, fucking PERFECT cock..."_
> 
> _"Mmmmm nom nom nom his cum looks delicious :P"_
> 
> _"Did you see his face? So damn gorgeous!!"_
> 
> _"Just look how hard he fucks that lucky bitch!"_
> 
> _"Did they have any clue someone was taping this?!?!"_
> 
> _"No I think this is immoral and illegal but hell I'm still thanking God for it."_
> 
> _"Yo I swear I'm straight, but dude, I'd pay good money just to suck that big fat dick..."_
> 
> _"Same bro... #nohomo."_
> 
> _"That hashtag is weak as fuck tho."_
> 
> _"Yo I think that's Carly!"_
> 
> _"Omg totally!! Get it Carlyyyy..."_
> 
> _"Ugh Carly's such a fucking slut!!! But I gotta confess I'm crazy jealous."_
> 
> _"YES BUT WHO IS HE?!?!"_
> 
> _"WHOEVER YOU ARE SIR PLEASE FUCK ME!!!"_
> 
> _"I DON'T KNOW WHO YOU ARE BUT I LIVE TO WORSHIP YOUR COCK!!!!!"_
> 
> _"AND THAT FINE FUCKING ASS OH MY GOD......"_

Pretty much all the rest of the comments are in frantic caps lock.

Dean is sitting beside you on the bed at this point, reading along as you scroll through the ever-growing list of comments. He laughs out loud as he starts seeing a whole section of viewers bonding over their obsession with his ass, who then decide they want to start some kind of online shrine. "This is actually hilarious..."

"And super hot," you add, noticing a series of eager requests for Part 2 of this saga, which makes you bite your lip and take a pause. You set your phone aside and turn to face the man who's seated next to you. The living, breathing, sex god. "What'd'ya say we give 'em more of what they want..."

His emerald eyes go wide at those words, and at the touch of your right hand upon his thigh. "Huh?"

You shrug, nonchalant as your hand moves across the denim toward his crotch, slowly inching its way up. "Well, you know—people recognized me in that video. I'm totally exposed, so... from now on I guess I only have a future as a porn star. May as well... get a head start..."

Dean shifts and tries to laugh that off. It doesn't help his cause that he is visibly rock hard. "Look, sweetheart, people may know who you are... but—"

"But what? You think I should still try to live life as a nun or something? Save my dignity?" you scoff as your fingers reach through his unfastened jeans, palming his huge cock through his boxer briefs. "I'm a grown woman who can make my own decisions. It's  _my_  life. And besides—this ain't my first rodeo, Dean."

He bites down hard on his full bottom lip, arousal bursting at the seams. "You mean..."

"I mean that wasn't my first porno."

Those bright green eyes go wide again. "Seriously?"

"Mm-hmm," you hum, moving to kneel beside the bed between his legs, one hand groping his dick while the other squeezes his balls, heavy with his heavenly come. "They were all anonymous, but yes. Just a few naughty amateur flicks. And I've got them all saved on my...  _hard_ drive."

His breath halts in a hiss, and then releases in a sigh of bliss as you massage his big hard dick, speaking that word with extra emphasis.

It's getting you so fucking horny, seeing him like this. You glance over at the computer on your desk. "Want me to show you some of my, um... greatest hits?"

" _Hell_  yes," he grunts, the low rasp in his voice setting fire to your soaking cunt. The fire runs wild as his luscious lips curl up into a smirk. "But first... let's put on a show for all those perverts. You asked for it, bitch."

 _Oh yes, you fucking did_. When he nods over at your laptop, that's your cue to rush across the room and get the webcam set up. All set to film your next XXX flick...

In this moment, Dean looks way hotter than any professional porn star as he reaches for his dick and licks his lips. "Let's fucking do this."

 

***************

 

" _Ughhh_ , that's it, slut—fucking suck it... yeah, just look how good she takes that big fat cock..." Dean groans, a low guttural sound from the pit of his throat as he feeds you his massive meat, shoving it in deep and making you choke.

He's talking dirty to you, just the way you want him to. But also to the thousands who are tuned in to the show. You've set this scene up as a livestream, taking comments as they come in—and  _damn_  are they coming, at what feels like a hundred a minute, popping up in real time on your screen. You made sure to position yourselves close enough to be able to read, at least whenever you're not busy gazing at the godlike gorgeousness of Dean.

The whole damn world knows you're Dean's dirty little whore, and it feels so good you could fucking scream. If only your whole throat weren't suffocated with his huge cock, worshiping him till he fills your mouth with cream. You obviously can't scream or say a word; the only sounds that you can manage are the thrumming of your vocal cords, gulps and gasps and gagging noises from the mess of spit and precome sloshing all around your mouth and spilling past your lips as you struggle to suck him down, a hardcore deepthroat scene straight from your wildest, wettest dreams.

And judging from the comments flitting all across your screen... you're not the only one who dreams of getting your face fucked by Dean, apparently.

> _"Yessss sir make her choke on that big perfect dick!"_
> 
> _"Lucky fucking bitch!!!"_
> 
> _"Ughh I would give literally ANYTHING to be in her position..."_
> 
> _"You better blow him good, slut! Worshiping this god is your life's purpose!!"_

"Mmm, you see that, slave?" Dean says as he keeps on vigorously pounding his cock into your face. "You listening to what they have to say? You're fucking  _worthless_. You exist only to be of service."

The whole comments section erupts, at those words.

> _"You tell her, sir!"_
> 
> _"Damn straight!"_
> 
> _"FUUCK YESSS!!!"_

Dean smirks at the comments and then spits down at you, smearing it into your forehead. "Bet you can't wait to swallow all my come, you good-for-nothing  _cunt_ ," he mercilessly taunts. "Hmm? Is that what you want?"

> _"Ugh I love it when you spit on this filthy bitch!"_
> 
> _"God yes, cum all over her face!!!"_
> 
> _"Down her dirty whore throat!"_
> 
> _"Nooo she doesn't deserve it, the bitch hasn't earned it..."_
> 
> _"Please just make her drink your fucking piss!!"_
> 
> _"Ohh that would be so perfect, yesssss..."_

Happy to oblige the eager audience, Dean violently shoves your skull off of his crotch, and orders you to gape your mouth wide open so he can shower you with his delicious golden juices, while thousands of strangers watch. Your eyes roll back in bliss as you guzzle down all of his steaming hot piss. But there's so fucking much that it's tough to keep up—you hate yourself for spilling even just one precious drop, but some of the bittersweet fluid ends up splashing down your chin when you start having trouble swallowing— _it feels like drowning in a flood that just won't stop_... and you don't want it to, not when Dean is laughing savagely down at you while he soaks you in his sweet golden nectar, his glorious god juice, fresh from the tap, streaming out of his perfect fucking cock. And the whole world is laughing too, which makes everything just that much hotter.

> _"LOL just look at her!"_
> 
> _"Hahahaha! Pathetic little whore!!"_
> 
> _"So much of his sweet piss is dripping off her lips... she's fucking useless..."_
> 
> _"I would drink it sooo much better!!!! God it must be so delicious..."_
> 
> _"Ughh, what is she even good for?!"_
> 
> _"NOTHING, that's what!!!"_
> 
> _"Filthy toilet SLUT! Do your damn job and drink up!"_
> 
> _"DRINK HIS PISS, BITCH!!!!"_

It feels like the most hellish kind of heaven, being totally humiliated like this. Precious droplets of Dean's piss have landed on the floor and all over his feet, you notice. Your master also notices. It's obvious that you need to be punished, so he grabs your head to slap you hard across the face and throws your head down to the ground. You moan in pleasure like the whore you are—this sort of abuse, from him, is what you live for, so it's honestly much more like a reward...

> _"Yess that's it!! Smack that naughty little bitch..."_
> 
> _"Fuck yeah, her face belongs down on the floor."_
> 
> _"Kiss his feet, you fucking whore!!"_
> 
> _"Lick them clean! It's all your worth!"_
> 
> _"Wowww, every inch of this man is so perfect..."_
> 
> _"He is a god made to be worshiped!"_
> 
> _"Oh I wish I could suck your toes, sir!!!"_
> 
> _"PLEASE please I want to see you step on her!!!!"_

You could spend literally forever just sucking and licking and kissing Dean's beautiful feet. And when he tramples you beneath, the brutal subjugation sends you to a subspace that's as sweet as it is deep. You could seriously exist like that for all eternity—but your audience also has other shit in mind, obviously...

> _"This nasty bitch doesn't deserve to breathe."_
> 
> _"Damn straight, sit on her fucking face!!!"_
> 
> _"Give her some ass to eat!! That's what she needs..."_
> 
> _"GODDD YESSS PLEEEEEEASE!"_
> 
> _"We all worship at the shrine of that divine behind :)"_
> 
> _"Please sir give the camera a closeup of your sweet sweaty pink asshole right before you fucking sit on her!!"_
> 
> _"Ohhh my God it is sooo beautiful I'm gonna die..."_
> 
> _"I bet nothing in heaven could ever taste better!!"_
> 
> _"I would literally pay all my life savings for you to please sit on my face, sir."_
> 
> _"This man is a fucking GOD and I would love to see him use his PERFECT ass to suffocate this worthless piece of shit WHORE!!!!!!"_

By this point, your entire sense of self has floated off somewhere it's never been before. But you're still very much awake, completely conscious as Dean squats over your face, letting your lips and tongue worship his luscious asshole as he rides your filthy mouth and grinds your head into the floor. The one bad thing about being smothered in this blissful position is that you can't see the stream of nasty comments anymore. But even if you could see your computer screen, you're so mind-blown that you've probably lost the ability to read. So it's not as if it matters, really.

Soon enough, you figure, all the comments beg for Dean to fuck your cunt, your ass, your tits, your mouth again, and soak you in his white hot godlike come. You look like a goddamn glazed donut by the time your master's done. Some strangers even say that, brutally mocking you from the comments section—you don't see those comments now, but Dean will tell you later on, once he's finished with the aftercare and all that fluffy stuff, when you two take some time to laugh and reminisce about this session. Nothing in your life has ever been so soulfully fulfilling while also sinfully  _fun_. 

And you have Dean to thank for that. For everything. This motherfucking flawless man that millions seem to worship as their golden god, their gorgeous king. Right now, your whole body is shaken with what feels like a never-ending orgasm as you surrender your entire existence to him, succumbing to a sweet state of utter submission. Speaking from recent experience, you can say that this sensation of surrendering yourself is even more powerful—and infinitely more pleasurable—than goddamn demonic possession.

It's impossible to describe just how blessed you're feeling as you drift off into the hazy daze, the perfect heaven of pure subspace. No words, and certainly no porn, could ever capture this... but maybe all the viewers looking on at Dean's divine display of dominance shared in a similar experience, even if only the secondhand kind. It's more than most people could ever hope for— _except for sluts like you, lucky enough to personally serve him as his whore_. You couldn't be more grateful for the ride, the way this sacred subspace satisfies your body and your soul from deep inside. And it feels even deeper, even hotter, knowing that you had been fucked by him in front of all the world—after all, both you and Dean love hardcore porn.

Myspace may not be some sort of porn site... but that's definitely what  _your_ space is, here with Dean tonight.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this!! :D
> 
> Always grateful for kudos and comments <3


	31. (S02E09) Shut Your Piehole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 9 ("Croatoan")*
> 
> *In which you are Dr. Lee*
> 
> You're a respectable doctor.
> 
> Or at least you were, until a man named Dean, the most gorgeous creature you have ever fucking seen, storms through the door.
> 
> As the day's events unfold, you watch him dominate a lesser man and order him to shut his piehole—and the scenes that follow... may be more than you came for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiii Deanbitches! First off, sorry that updates are taking so long lately :( Life's been keeping me busy, but here is the next update, finally! :)
> 
> Sooo FYI, most of this scene involves the reader watching another man get dominated and degraded by Dean. For anyone who isn't into that, no worries!! Most of this fic will still definitely be M/F. But I've had some comments expressing interest in M/M, with Dean asserting his superiority over a lesser man, so here's my first (non-Wincest) attempt :D It is rather intense, though not too much more than some of the previous M/F stuff, I guess... I hope at least some of you will enjoy it!

***Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 9 ("Croatoan")***

***In which you are Dr. Lee***

 

 

"Don't—please..." the young man fearfully weeps, squirming against the ropes that bind him to his seat. "I  _swear_  it's not in me...!"

In this instant, standing witness to this horrifying scene, you should probably be filled with dread and pity. For the plight of this poor bastard who has been accused of having some disease that he can't even understand. Duane Tanner was always a good kid, and now he's suspected of being infected. If he is, then it's supposedly contagious, and he'd be better off dead. For his own sake and everyone else's. You're the doctor in the room, the one who should be able to determine all the answers. But his blood tests aren't conclusive; you just  _can't_. You should feel scared, and sad...

Yet mostly all you're feeling is arousal and desire, all your insides set on fire, at the sight of the Adonis who is towering before the less attractive man, cocked gun in hand. His name is Dean, and he is the most drop-dead gorgeous creature you have ever fucking seen.  _Even more so when he's on the verge of killing someone..._ the way this vision turns you on just gives a whole new level to what drop-dead gorgeous means. His big strong body is the stuff of goddamn dreams, his eyes a gloriously stunning shade of green, his beauty powerful enough to bring the whole world to its knees. He is a living, breathing  _god_ , and that's a fact. It's inconvenient to be so distracted by that when your town has fallen victim to a freak virus attack.

But you're not the only one, apparently. Not alone in being hypnotized by Dean's fucking perfection. For you notice, just then, that something is stirring in Duane Tanner's pants: something that looks like a little erection. It's not very big, so you can't really tell, but... well. You won't blame the poor son of a bitch, if that lump in his jeans is indeed his own dick. The thought of staring down the barrel of Dean's loaded pistol is hot as all hell.

 _Speaking of hell—that's most definitely where you're going_ , you tell yourself, deeply ashamed to be thinking such things in this moment. You're a responsible professional, a respectable woman. Surely you're just suffering through some brief sexual hallucinations, your hormones all a mess from the trauma of recent events. Surely that's not a hard-on in the Tanner boy's pants; you must be seeing things. At least you happen to know, being the town doctor and all, that the boy is over eighteen. So these filthy dirty thoughts that you're having about him and Dean... well, at least they're all totally legal.  _But still. That doesn't mean... that doesn't mean it's okay for these thoughts to be happening..._

Ant then Dean fucking  _speaks_ , responding brutally to the boy's desperate pleas, starting a flood in your cunt with the force of his deep, husky voice. "I got no choice."

His finger is hovering over the trigger. Your wet pussy shamelessly drips with each twitch of his beautiful lips. It's beyond sick that part of you actually  _wants_  him to go through with this, just to assert how strong and savage and superior he is... just fucking  _slam it_...

...but he doesn't. Dean Winchester may be a sexy beast, but he's no monster, not by any means. He lowers his pistol and turns to leave. " _Damn it_." 

 _Damn it indeed_. The god let the boy keep his life, just as the inferior bastard had begged—just as he'd wanted... but in doing so, denied you and the boy a climactic explosion, some kind of satisfying end to the scene. Which is what you and he both so desperately need.

 

***************

 

Some time later, the tables have turned: the other Winchester has come in contact with contaminated blood, after getting attacked by an infected nurse. Dean had stormed onto the scene and shot her, but not soon enough to stop her. Now the one suspected of infection is his precious baby brother.

Duane Tanner, for one, doesn't want to take any chances on Sam, after what's happened. "He's not gonna be your brother much longer," he says, reminding Dean of just how viciously this virus spreads. "You said it yourself—"

"Nobody is shooting anyone!" the sex god shouts furiously.

The younger man lashes back. "You were gonna shoot me!"

Dean glares at Duane, dark emerald gaze blazing with hate, pointing his forefinger in such a way as to convey that he now wishes he had pulled the trigger. Wishes Duane had died. "If you don't shut your piehole, I still might!"

 _Well, fuck_. That shuts the kid right up. He gulps and stares obediently up at Dean like his submissive little slut. While everyone else in the room is focused on the grave matter at hand, arguing about the next best course of action, the Tanner kid is busy struggling to smother his erection and contain his burning surge of homosexual attraction.

You can totally tell; being a doctor, after all, you read the human body well. Poor kid is mortified as hell. He probably never even thought that he was gay, until today. He can't be blamed, and shouldn't feel ashamed; Dean is hot enough to set even the straightest dude aflame. The second you laid eyes on him, you came—and if you were a man, you're pretty sure you'd feel the same. When a specimen is so utterly  _perfect_ , it's only natural that his presence would have that effect. An effect that transcends gender and sex...

Tensions are too high right now for anyone, other than you, to notice the small situation Tanner has got going on between his legs. And honestly, you've got one of your own; you've never been so soaking wet. For better or for worse, staying behind with his doomed brother—sending the rest of you to safety in his car, equipped with makeshift bombs and firearms, hopefully enough to get you out of town and safe from harm—is the brilliant idea that Dean has next.

You don't like it. Not one bit. But when Dean Winchester issues an order, you're powerless to resist. As you leave the room, you should be thinking of your chances at survival, how you're gonna face what waits outside the hospital, and yet... all you can think is that you'll never get to see this gorgeous god again, never get a glimpse of his divine delicious dick, never have the chance to worship at the altar of your one true perfect king. And that you'd rather just be dead. You share a quick glance with the Tanner kid, and it's clear that he's thinking the same exact thing. 

Oh, you both are  _so_  fucked in the head.

 

***************

 

You cannot believe just how lucky you are. As it turned out, you and the others never had to flee the city in Dean's car. For as soon as you'd set foot outside the building, you could see the threat was gone—no more hordes of townspeople eager to spread their demonic infection. The entire population had just... vanished. As if by some dark, creepy magic. The whole scene was no longer dangerous and violent; the town was just empty and silent. 

Which meant that you could stay here in the hospital, at least for one more night. There was no longer any urgency to leave, no enemy to fight, no threat of death lurking outside. 

So here you are, in the same building as a motherfucking sex god, for at least a few more hours. You feel blessed beyond belief, and it's a huge relief. Everyone in the group needs some rest, and now you have more time to check on Sam's progress, await the results of his blood test. If the rest of you had gone, Dean would have had to face that all alone; now you're glad that he won't.

The Tanner boy quietly skulks off to another room, supposedly to get some sleep, though you know he'll just be vigorously jerking off to Dean. Fist around his tiny cock as he indulges in a long, kinky wet dream. As for you—you stick around in the exam room here with Dean and Sam, because you can. This whole doctor thing gives you a damn good excuse. It's not as if you have anything better to do. Other than touch yourself thinking of him— _but why should you? Why fantasize alone, when instead you can behold his beauty, right here in this room...?_

A few hours pass; you for one aren't bored in the slightest, having spent all this time ogling his ass, but Dean doesn't have much to keep him awake and amused. He stifles a yawn at one point, which is all kinds of cute.

"All right, you two," Sam mutters eventually. "You don't have to babysit me. You should both get some sleep."

Dean shakes his pretty head. "Nuh-uh, Sammy. You're not gonna get rid of me that easy."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Seriously, Dean. You need some rest," he insists. Then he unexpectedly glances at you, as if he can tell that your panties are all soaking wet. Looking back at Dean, after having seen you bursting at the seams, Sammy has something else to suggest. "Or you can, um—you know... unwind, in the way you do best."

Your slutty little heart stops in your chest.  _Did the younger Winchester just suggest...?_

Dean seems to be having a similar reaction. "The hell?" he says. "Sammy, since when—"

"Since when do I advocate you having sex?" his brother finishes the sentence. "With women? Since right now, Dean. Since it's the only way I can convince you to stop hovering around me. All day you've been a raging heap of pent-up energy and I think you need to satisfy yourself."

The sex god's gorgeous green eyes stare and blink.

Before you can even begin processing what Sam might've meant by 'with women,' his hazel gaze turns toward you again. "Well, Dr. Sexy—maybe we need a professional opinion. What do you think?"

You blush slightly at the compliment, wondering if Dean would ever call you the same thing. Just the thought gets your cunt even more fucking dripping. "Y-yes," you stammer, trying and failing not to make a bumbling fool out of yourself. "Yes, I think some... some good rest and relaxation might make sense. I mean, um—in my professional opinion, it would be good for his health."

"That's settled, then," Sam proudly pronounces.

Dean's flawless features turn down into a disgruntled frown. But from the glimmer in his eyes and growing bulge within his jeans, you can tell that he's starting to get some ideas about screwing around.  _Taking your ass to fucking town..._

He then lets out a low sigh of surrender, and it's honestly the sweetest fucking sound. " _Fine_ —but this doesn't mean you win," he grumbles to his brother. "This just means I've been wanting to fuck Dr. Sexy all day and am tired of keeping it in."

Sam huffs a chuckle of victory. "Sure, whatever..."

"Now shut your piehole, sit your ass down in that chair and let me tie you up," Dean orders, not about to leave his possibly demon-infected brother here alone and untethered. As for you, hearing those words out of his mouth— _well, you hadn't thought you could possibly get any wetter..._

The shaggy-haired Winchester does as told, though not without a cheeky little smirk. "You gonna do the same thing to her?"

"Shame on you," Dean mutters, trying to ignore the little groans and sighs of pleasure coming out of his kid brother, as he fastens ropes around the tall man's shoulders, pulling the knots ever tighter and harder. He flashes you a playful, pussy-slaying wink with his next words. "She's a respectable doctor."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure..." Sam snickers at the sight of you downright aflutter with desire. It's doing very naughty things to you, goddamnit, watching this Adonis binding heavy ropes around his hunky younger brother. It's incredible how even when Sam is so big and tall, in Dean's presence somehow he doesn't give off any dominance at all...

"I  _said_ ," Dean repeats as he ties the last coil of rope extra forcefully, "shut your piehole. Now stay right here and don't move a goddamn muscle."

"Like I even could," Sam snorts, straining his arms briefly against the knotted cords to test their strength, just as his jeans strain to contain his bulging length. His brother is some kind of bondage expert, so the ropes don't even budge, of course. "You tied me up real good."

"Damn right I did," the sex god gloats, a proud chuckle resounding in his throat. He turns to face you then, clearly reading all over your face and your body how badly you want him. "All righty, doc. Why don't we go get a room for you to do a full examination of my big hard fucking cock."

 

***************

 

Once you've guided him to a room down the hall, Dean hesitates for a second, which you really hadn't expected at all. You were all set for him to throw you down and take you from behind... but something else is on his mind. It doesn't take you long to realize that this pause was probably caused by the sounds that you two had just heard, which you'd tried to ignore at first—sounds coming loudly from one of the rooms you'd passed by: Duane Tanner weeping and whimpering like he was going to die.

His gorgeous head lowered in guilt, Dean bites his luscious lower lip. "You must think I'm some kind of monster, huh," he mutters. "After what I almost did. To that poor kid."

 _...Oh. So he thinks the boy is making all that noise because he's traumatized? He doesn't even get that Tanner must be moaning as he gets off to a vision of godlike green eyes, dreaming of kneeling down between Dean's strong muscular thighs? This guy is as stunning as he is stupid_ , you think. Apparently, to his own orientation-altering beauty, he's utterly blind. 

It's really precious that he hates himself like this, feels so much guilt, for what he almost did. Of course you don't consider him a monster, especially when he didn't even go through with it. "No, I don't, Dean. Honestly," you reassure him. "Because you  _didn't_."

"Yeah, but I—I came so  _close_..." he sighs, shutting his eyes, head still bowed low. "What stopped me, at the last second, I just... don't even know."

As you watch him wallow in self-hatred, a sinfully brilliant thought pops into your head. You really should not be thinking such a thing.  _But you can't resist seeing just where this might go_... Giving in to your shameless instincts, you lick your lips and clear your throat. "Well, if you're so torn up about it—maybe you should try and talk to him."

Dean blinks. "You think?"

You nod and smile slightly, trying to come off as nonchalant and innocent. "Yeah. I mean, I'm not a shrink—but it doesn't take a psych expert to know that talking through issues is healthier than moping."

He bites his lip again, considering it for a moment. "You're right, doc," he agrees, seeming to play right into what you'd planned. Yet something shifts in him just then, and... suddenly he's staring at you with a smoldering intensity that brings you to your knees. "But you know what? I don't think I give a fuck."

Yeah, those words  _literally_  bring you to your knees. Your back slides down the wall behind you till your face is level with his bulging crotch, gawking as his fingers start unfastening his fly, getting off on the sound of him snickering down at your mesmerized face as you watch. "That weepy little bitch ain't worth a talk. Not when I'm about to stuff your filthy whore mouth full of cock."

"Oh  _Goddd_..." you moan in the instant just before Dean shoves his whole dick down your throat. Your soaking cunt promptly explodes, drenching your once-respectable doctor clothes.

"Unghhh yeah, that's it. Take it, you dirty fucking bitch..." he groans, sturdy hands tangling and tugging at your hair as his meat makes you choke. He tastes so delicious you can't even take it. But taking it is what he told you to do, and you  _must_ do as told...

Dean spends the next hour or so fucking you up in every way, by fucking you in every hole. Filling you up with his hot creamy come, feeding you so completely  _full_ , body and soul. Sure, your master plan to have him walk in on a poor little bastard masturbating to him—setting the stage for the two men to play out a filthy gay sex fantasy—had failed miserably. But right now, you couldn't give less of a shit, to be honest. Because Dean Fucking Winchester has just fucked you to pieces.  _You can die happy now, officially_...

"What the  _hell_?" you hear him yell, all of a sudden.

From where you lie in a motionless heap on the floor, you turn your head to face the door. It's pushed ajar the slightest bit, and there's a shadow standing out there in the corridor, peeking in through the crevice and hoping he wouldn't be noticed. It's obvious just who it is: the Tanner kid. And Dean is fucking  _pissed_.

"The fuck you think you're doing, huh?" the sex god furiously roars as he storms over toward the door. "This ain't a goddamn show. You can't just... oh."

As he flings the door open to confront the kid, his husky voice halts in his throat. You know what caused the pause. It's clear that Tanner was enjoying what he saw... maybe a bit too much. And at the sight of what the other guy's got packing— _or, well, more like what he's lacking_ —Dean has to put his hand over his own mouth just to stop himself from cracking up. 

It's not just that it's small. It definitely is, but more than that, it's just so weak and wimpy-looking, thin and short and pale against his shriveled balls. And this is when it's harder than it's ever been. When limp, you have to wonder if this sorry little thing is even visible at all. It doesn't help that the most epic penis in existence happens to be right beside it, in this instant—the comparison is downright tragic. Dean's erection is the picture of perfection, as if crafted by pure magic, thick and pink and powerful, towering proud and tall.

The boy's jaw has dropped, tongue hanging out over his bottom lip, at the sight of this big dick, up close and personal like this. He's been watching Dean in action for some time now, but this flawless cock is finally so close that he can smell its godlike scent, can feel its presence, almost taste it... suddenly his knees are weak, arms reaching out to brace his trembling body up against the door and keep himself from falling to the floor, sealing his fate as Dean's gay little whore.

The Adonis just furrows his brows, not quite sure how to process what's happening now. He has probably never seen anything so wretchedly pathetic. While at first he'd been pissed about having an unwelcome audience, now he just feels guilt and pity for having choked back a cruel laugh at this poor kid's expense. "Hey man, I'm sorry..."

"N-no, don't be—please..." the boy bleats as he sinks to his knees. Just like his dick, his voice is weak, barely a squeak, "...I like it when you laugh at me."

Now Dean's own jaw drops. "The  _fuck_?"

Tanner is in some kind of daze, agape and utterly amazed, now that his face is at the level of this sex god's massive cock.

"Whoa, whoa—" Dean objects, stepping back as the boy reaches out to touch, lost in a deep submissive trance. That's when the master roughly slaps away his hands. " _Hell_ no."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir," the boy whimpers, shivering in pleasure just at the touch of Dean's punishing fingers. "You're just—you're so perfect it  _hurts_..."

Compliments never sit well with Dean Winchester. Even less so when they make him feel gay. The whole thing with his own brother—which he's been spending months trying to bury and smother—already bothers him on the gay  _and_  the incest front, more than enough. He shakes his head and laughs it off. "Yeah okay thanks, but I don't swing that way."

You happen to know that's a load of crap. So you decide that it's time to speak up. The respectable doctor. "Oh, sir, I wouldn't be so sure."

Both of their heads turn, as you join them by the door.

The setup for this is too priceless. Straight out of some raunchy gay porn. You should probably just stay out of this, but you can't fight the urge. "After that whole bondage scene with your brother... you ain't fooling me, Winchester."

Dean fumes, pointing his finger dangerously at you. "You shut your piehole, Dr. Whore."

"Oh, I will, sir," you assure him, holding on to your composure even while his bossy anger sets a bomb off in your crotch. "I'm just gonna sit back and watch. But first—well, speaking of Sammy... we don't want him hearing all this, do we? We should probably shut the door. Why don't you come inside, Mr. Tanner."

Happy to follow that order, the little bastard starts to crawl forward, pressing one palm to the floor over the threshold of the door...

And that's when Dean steps on his wrist. "No," he firmly protests. "He's not invited."

At that, you stifle a triumphant little smile. Dean's dick is still hard as a rock all this while. And without even knowing it, he's totally playing right into this. 

And of course, the kid already is. Head lowering on instinct, he bends down and presses his lips to the top of Dean's dominant foot in a passionate kiss. The sex god had already stripped fully naked and kicked off his shoes, some time ago, for purposes of dominating you. So both his feet are bare, sweaty skin open to the air. From your time with him, you know firsthand just how good those feet taste. How good it feels to have them rubbing all over your face. Now the boy knows it, too, and clearly longs to worship these feet just as you do, to serve and please this gorgeous god as his devoted little slave...

Dean glances down and bites his lip. To witness the filthy gay kiss, and to see the gleaming bead of precome that's starting to drip from the tip of his own throbbing dick. "Shit..."

"Mmm, yeah that's nice," you sigh, reaching down to massage the tense muscles of Dean's sculpted thighs, marveling at the signs of his arousal, undeniable and powerful, following the oozing droplet of his juices with adoring eyes. "Feels good, doesn't it, big guy? Doesn't it just feel  _right_? To be worshiped and pleasured, by something so fucking inferior... so damn pathetic... Just look at him, desperate to serve you like this—just look what it does to his weak little dick..."

" _Fuuuck_..." Dean explosively grunts, as the boy begins sucking his toes, gaping his mouth till the knucklebones scrape at his throat, while he struggles to swallow down all five at once.

 _Ugh God, that's hot_ , you think, even more turned on by knowing this flawless Adonis is having the same exact thought. This is hands down the hottest shit you've ever watched; your own arousal keeps on building in your shameless little cunt. 

"Just give in to this, Dean," you coax him lustfully, whispering into his ear between kisses all over his beautiful body. You can tell, from the way his breath quickens and swells, that he doesn't want to have to fight these urges any longer. It's not even about being gay, or bisexual, or any other kind of label; it's just about deserving to be worshiped by another, regardless of orientation, regardless of sex or of gender. In his mind and his heart, Dean hates himself too much to realize that worship is what he deserves... but his body knows better. And you're pushing him over the edge, with your sensuous words.  _Hottest fucking thing ever._ "Just embrace your desires, surrender to the roles that you were born to play together... It'll be nice and healthy; believe me. I am a respectable doctor, remember?"

The sex god snickers as he shifts his foot to crush his slaveboy's head into the floor. "Yeah, thought you were," he mutters as the boy lets out a piggish squeal of subjugated pleasure. "Now it turns out you're nothing but a kinky fucking whore. You get off on worshiping me, yet it looks like you get off on watching this shit even more."

"Unghhh  _yesss_ —yes I do, sir..." you groan as Dean unexpectedly reaches up to grab a fistful of your hair, sweat-matted strands twining around his savage fingers.

"Then shut up and watch, you dumb cunt," he grunts, suddenly shoving you down toward the ground with brute force, dealing a sharp kick to your ass as you collapse: his way of telling you to crawl across the floor. And do it fast. "Just sit and watch me fuck the shit out of this little bitch, with his sorry excuse for a dick. Just the way you both want."

 

***************

 

The king starts by commanding his sex slave to strip. Laughing down at the sight of his weak little limbs, pale and scrawny just like his inferior dick. The boy's tiny prick twitches in pleasure, with each vicious laugh from his god's gorgeous lips.

"Damn, you are one sorry-looking piece of  _shit_ ," Dean scoffs, sauntering across the room to pick up the pink lacy thong you'd been wearing before, until he'd ripped it off. He dangles it mockingly right in front of his bitch. "You're so fucking pathetic I can't stand the sight of you naked. Let's see if you'd look any prettier in this."

"Y-yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Tanner stammers as his master drops the panties to the ground, obediently stooping down. Dean takes a few steps till he's standing behind his filthy little pet. Watching as the boy starts to step into the flashy pink underthings—

 _Crack._ The slave sharply arches his back, crying out as the thick leather belt in his king's mighty grasp lashes down against his naked ass.

"Did I say you could wear them like that?" the god angrily rasps. "What gives you the right to put those on the way a normal human would. Think you can use this thong to hide that puny little cock? It'd cover it up real good. All the half an inch of it. But that's not what I want."

He moves to stand before his slave, towering powerfully in front of him and spitting down onto his breathless face, while the boy apologizes desperately for his mistake. "I'm so sorry... so sorry, oh God..."

"No, you're not. You know your face looks like a sloppy fucking cunt?" Dean cruelly taunts. " _That's_  where I want you to wear this damn thong. Go on, make that stupid face look even more like a filthy whore cunt. 'Cause I'm gonna fuck it like one."

The boy starts sinking to his knees; those words seem to have sent him to the deepest pit of subspace. " _Hoooly_..."

"Damn straight this cock is holy, you pathetic little slave," his master says, snickering wickedly as Tanner pulls your thong over his face, the crotch of it draping over his forehead, sticky with your pussy juices, his other features peeking out from under and between the hot pink lace. "Look at you. Wearing some dirty skank's used panties on your head. Kneeling down like a dog between my legs."

Tanner sighs, very aware of the fact that he is right between Dean's meaty thighs. "Yes, sir—they are so strong, so beautiful... so big and muscular... may I please kiss them, sir?" he desperately begs.

"I'd rather use these legs to crush your goddamn head," the king replies, spitting straight down in the boy's gaping mouth. "But you'd like it too much, if I did that instead. It would get your pathetic dick so fucking wet."

" _Yes_ , Master, yesss..." the kid groans, wildly thrusting his hips into the empty space in front of him, fucking his tiny cock against nothing. It's so small that the air alone probably provides enough friction. No doubt that's just what Dean is thinking.

"Shut up and sniff my sweaty balls, you dirty pig," the king orders his plaything. "That's it, bury that worthless head between these big strong thighs. See what a real man smells like."

The slaveboy eagerly complies, smushing his nose into his master's heavy sack to soak in the scent of pure heaven, his puny dick harder than it's ever been, all his life. He sings the praises of his perfect king, the loving words muffled against sweet salty skin. "Ohh sir, mmmph thank you  _so_  much... mmphhfuck, you smell so good... so hot... mmmphyou are a fucking  _god_..."

The sex god laughs, flicking his wrist to whip his leather belt against his fucktoy's ass. "Damn right. I'm everything you're not," he reminds him then, using his free hand to stroke his own beautiful cock. Shifting one of his feet to press his sole against his slave's sad little dick and balls, smothering and squashing them completely, as the ultimate statement of superiority. "Everything you will  _never_  be."

"Y-yes, thank you sir, mmmphfor telling me... and showing me..." the boy effuses, getting off on the masterful way Dean Fucking Winchester so mercilessly dominates and abuses. He keeps his hands clasped in submission at the small of his back, while he inhales the sweat and the musk of his king's bulging sack. But more than anything, he wishes he could use his worthless hands to massage and worship his god's glorious ass...

"Bet you wish you could touch this sweet ass," Dean mocks his greedy little swine, reading his mind. "Well, you  _can't_. But I can suffocate you with it. Would you like that?"

" _Yes..._!" the pig exclaims, fucking his hips into the air even faster. "Mmmphh _fuck_  yes, thank you, Master..."

"Sick little bastard," the king laughs as he throws the boy's head down onto the ground and buries it beneath his perfect ass. With his eager nose lodged deep inside Dean Winchester's delicious sweaty hole, the sculpted globes of the sex god's muscular butt cheeks smothering his skull... the poor kid is flung so far into heaven, some other goddamned dimension, that he doesn't even realize when his tiny little cock starts to explode. With his back pressed to the floor as he squirms like a suffocated whore, tiny driblets of sperm trickle out of the tip of his spastically quivering dick, leaking onto the pale pasty skin of his stomach.

Dean lets out another brutal laugh as he keeps on crushing the boy with his divine ass. "Holy fucking  _shit_ , kid. Was that—was that supposed to be an orgasm? Or a sad little worm having a muscle spasm?" 

Whatever it was, these insults are almost enough to give Tanner  _another_ one, but he doesn't have the stamina for that. Whereas his king is a sex god, a motherfucking stallion, always up for more after round one... for this weak little bitch, those few ounces of come felt like gallons.

"Worthless piece of scum," the Adonis spits down at him. "Guess sniffing my ass is enough to make you come. Imagine what would happen if I let you worship this fine fucking ass with your tongue..."

There are no words to describe how much that turns his fucktoy on.

"Maybe once I'm done fucking your face like a cunt," Dean grunts, swiftly shifting position till he's standing up again, with his slave's face between his hands, holding it in place right in front of his hips, so he can shove his huge cock past his bitch's panting lips. "Yeah, that's it. Suck on this big dick, you pathetic fucking slut."

And that's exactly what he does. Imagining the whole time that this gorgeous golden god is calling him a fucking  _faggot_ —it's a word that doesn't even cross Dean's mind, for all this time, which may be for the best, given that it's so homophobic and politically incorrect—but in the kid's own head, that is the filthy nasty word his master uses. He  _wants_  this sex to be as dirty and degrading as it gets, serving this flawless king as his devoted little pet. Hell, this all started because he got off on the thought of Dean shooting him square in the head. If he had done it, Tanner would have had to come back from the dead, just to thank him for such a gift.  _That_ is how goddamn intense his obsession with Dean Fucking Winchester is.

He knows it more than ever once Dean pounds his massive dick deep in his tight virgin ass till it bleeds, then orders him to get back on his knees and suck it clean. Then the Adonis lets his filthy fuckpig drink his fresh hot piss, soaking his slave in the sweet golden stream. The next task should obviously be to lick his master's luscious ass and eat his shit, to be his literal toilet, just as the pig has always dreamed...

But before it can get to that, Dean comes all over his bitch's face one final time, glazing the boy's face with his cream until your thong is basically pasted right onto him, a film of come and piss and spit coating his skin between the bright pink lacy seams. And then the god decides to end the scene.

" _Wow_ ," he sighs, wiping stray beads of sweat off of his brow, finding the nearest chair and plopping his fine ass exhaustedly down, big hard cock finally starting to soften up against the muscles of his thighs, looking at the kid and then at you with mind-blown eyes. "That was... um..."

You finish his sentence, leaning against a table at the other end of the room, still recovering from your own earth-shattering orgasm. Taking full credit for having persuaded him to give in to this whole thing, for the little push you'd given him. "Hot as  _fuck_. You're welcome."

"Yeah," Dean agrees breathlessly, with a wide smile and a deep little laugh. "Thanks, doc."

Meanwhile poor Tanner has begun wailing and whimpering again, just as he had been when you two had first heard him, reduced to a weeping puddle on the ground.

Dean looks down, flawless features furrowing into a frown. "Um. I guess I don't know how to do the whole aftercare thing, right now. I mean—I think I'm still sort of straight, mostly—like, I'm not gonna cuddle and give him a sweet loving blowjob or something..."

 _Oh, he is all kinds of adorable. Despite being a motherfucking sex god king._ You're more than just a little bit in love with him, but for a respectable doctor like you, those kinds of feelings are an unaffordable inconvenience.  _Not to mention that falling in love so damn quickly makes no fucking sense._ So you'll just call it a crush, and move on. But for as long as he's still here, letting you live this sweet wet dream, you'll play along. "Are you asking Dr. Sexy for advice, Dean? For my expert opinion?"

He lifts up his big shoulders in a little shrug. "I ain't asking nothing."

 _Too proud to admit what he needs. Obviously_. That only makes you love him even more, which is just fucking great. "Well, I'll answer anyway," you graciously say. "All he needs is to be reminded that what happens during sex— _that_  kind of sex—is just a game. A dream. No matter how real it may seem. You just need to somehow show him that you see him as a human being."

Dean chews his lip, scratches his head. "But I thought that goes without saying," he huffs. "Sex is—sex is just..."

"Sex is never ' _just_ ' anything," you tell him, starting to gather up your scattered clothes from all around the room. "It always means something. Even—maybe especially when it means nothing."

That hits him in the gut. Just as it should. In ways he wished it never would. It makes him think of more than just this kid. It makes him think of Jo, of Sam, even the cryptic angel in his head. And every chick he's ever fucked and then forgotten. All the nameless faces blurring into one. Soon enough you'll be one of them. Dean thinks of everyone and everything he's ever screwed. Except himself. That's where he would've found the truth.

He may be confused, as to just what your words even meant, on the surface... but deep down he knows, in his bones. In the core of the soul, of the heart that he so often keeps fast asleep. Burned in the flames of his first home. But never gone. 

"Wow, Dr. Sexy—that's deep," he answers lightheartedly as he stands from his seat and reaches for his shirt, or for his pants, anything real that he can hold within his hands. Nothing too heavy. He only feels naked when he lets himself understand. So for now he'll pretend that he can't.

You can tell that he's resorting to pretending, so you figure now's the time for you to go. The fact is that the aftercare will come easy to him if he pretends the kid is Sam. No doubt he hates that fact; it shows. It's not like you can blame him, for that. But maybe he'll be more honest, more real, with himself and with the kid, once you have left the room—you hope he will. He may not see it, but there's hope for him still. You just know. There is still hope for Dean Winchester's wayward soul.

He needs to find it himself, though. So as for you... at least for now, you'll just do as Dean told: shut your piehole.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this!! :)
> 
> Always grateful for kudos and comments <3


	32. (S02E10) A Little Nookie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 10 ("Hunted")*
> 
> *In which you are Ava Wilson*
> 
> You're getting married soon. Your fiancé loves you, and you love him, too.
> 
> But in the bedroom... there's some kinky shit that you two like to do. 
> 
> When Dean Winchester enters the scene, all your kinkiest dreams may be set to come true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii Deanbitches! Sooo after all the lovely reactions on the M/M action in the last scene, I ended up writing some more of that here... in this chapter, it's more of an M/M/F threesome kind of thing (in which the reader is a woman, in a relationship with a man who has a cuckold kink). So of course Dean's role is totally dominating :) It was a ton of fun to write, and I hope you have fun reading it! I don't think there will be M/M in every scene, so for those who prefer M/F only, don't worry. Always love to hear from readers either way :)

***Scene deleted from Season 2, Episode 10 ("Hunted")***

***In which you are Ava Wilson***

 

****

 

 _Fuck this shit_ , you think.  _Just fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it._

This is all just way too much. Too fucked. You are apparently some kind of psychic, cursed with dark visions of random strangers dying. There are others like you, too: super-powered freaks who have been chosen for something, to play a key part in some war that's supposedly coming. At least that's what Sam Winchester—this tall guy whom you saw die in your latest dream—seems to believe.  _But you don't want to, damn it._ For fuck's sake, you're getting married in eight weeks, and it's been ages since you had a good night's sleep. You're obviously gonna look like a big sack of crap on your wedding day.

The only good thing that you've seen, in all your deadly dreams, these terrifying visions that you've had... was the other man who appeared in your dream about Sam. Not his attacker—Gordon Walker, or whatever—that sadistic bastard wasn't very cute. No, the  _other_ dude. The one who was trapped in the house in which Sam died, tied to a chair inside. In your mind's eye, you only caught a glimpse. But that was all you had to see of him. Even from just one look, within your subconscious, you could tell that he was heart-stoppingly gorgeous.  _Golden-brown hair, glowing green gaze, a big strong body hot enough to match his fucking flawless face..._

You try to brush your shameful thoughts away. To focus on how much you love your fiancé. You do;  _of course_ you do. He is a great guy and has always been so good to you. Sure, he has a small dick, which is really quite unfortunate, but he has such a big heart to make up for it. You love and cherish him, no matter what may happen in the bedroom, where he likes it when you get on top and treat him like a worthless piece of shit. Femdom is his thing, and you've always been glad to indulge in his kinks. It's exciting and fun. But there is one—one fetish you haven't been willing to try out with him, one thing that you've never done...

Anyhow, you're in an argument with Sam now, which requires your attention. He is planning to head to a certain building that you recognize—the one where you saw him blow up, in your freak premonition—and barge right inside. You barely know the guy, but still, you don't want him committing straight-up suicide. "You are walking right into my vision," you tell him. "I mean, this is how you die!"  

Sammy doesn't seem to care, his puppy-dog stare soft, yet firm, behind a fringe of dark brown hair. "Doesn't matter," he mutters. "He's my brother."

And that's when it hits you.  _His brother_. His brother must be the Adonis you'd seen in your dreams. And that means... well, that means the scene of Sam's death is exactly where you want to be. You don't  _want_  Sam to die, but if there's any chance he'll make it out of there alive, then you want to be by his side. So that you can meet the sex god with the gorgeous green eyes...

On some level, you're aware that you are utterly insane. Totally fucked up in the brain. But you couldn't care less; from even just seeing the image of that man in your subconscious, you are so beyond obsessed. This could be your chance to meet him in the flesh. You have to take whatever chance you get. And if you die the moment after you lay eyes on Mr. Motherfucking Perfect—well, hell, it would be  _so_ worth it.

You wonder if Sam notices, this instant, how your eyes brighten, voice perking up all of a sudden. You're so excited and you really can't contain yourself. "Maybe I can help!"

Sam shakes his shaggy head; he clearly will not stand for that. Your clumsy ass would sooner hinder him than lend a helping hand. "You've done all you can," he says. "Just—just go back to your fiancé."

 _Great. Just great_. There's no use arguing, you know; of course he's going to insist that you head home. Of course he just had to remind you of the inadequate lover who awaits. 

With no choice but to obey, you get into your car, all set to drive away. Before you do, you ask Sam to promise to call you, when he gets to his brother. Just to let you know that everything's okay. As in, to confirm that no damage was done to his brother's exquisitely beautiful face. Thankfully, you manage to keep that last thought undercover.

As you drive off, you try to just smile and think happy thoughts. Of your upcoming wedding, of spending the rest of your life with your true love. But really, now that you will never lay eyes on that nameless sex god, the man of your dreams... it just feels like your whole life is over.

 

***************

 

 _Damn_ , Dean thinks as Sammy reaches for his cell phone yet again— _Sam's got a real thing for that Ava chick_. Not as if he can blame him or anything. Hell, he's glad whenever Sammy has the hots for anybody other than his own big brother. From having glimpsed you through the window when he first located Sam, hiding in that random motel, Dean could already see you're cute. And slutty, too. He could just tell. Can't help but wonder if Sam had a chance to fuck you. Hopes he fucked you well.  _He'd much rather do that himself, though..._

While driving down the road, Dean teases Sam about being so glued to the phone. "You calling that Ava girl again? You sweet on her or something?"

As expected, that annoys the shit out of Sammy. "She's engaged, Dean."

"So?" the driver presses on. No diamond ring ever prevented him from getting what he wants. "What's the point in saving the world if you can't get a little nookie once in a while, huh?"

Sam doesn't bother responding at all. Just scowls in troubled thought, concerned that you haven't been answering his calls, then asks how far they are from Peoria.

Not all that far. And Sam has a feeling that they need to be there, right now. At your house. Moments later, Dean swivels his sexy black car, and drives through the dark night toward where you are.

 

***************

 

When they get to your place, knocking hard on the front door and ringing the bell, no one answers. So the Winchesters do what they do so well: break and enter.

All is quiet at first. But then... then they hear something, from the second floor. The sound of groans and cries and whimpers. As if somebody is very badly hurt. Sam had been worried that you were in danger; it seems he was right. Dean just hopes they're not too late to save you tonight...

As they reach the source of the sounds—now increasingly desperate and loud—Dean holds his gun out as he walks up to the master bedroom door and kicks it down.

And then he and his brother both blink. At the sight of you and your submissive fiancé fulfilling one of his favorite kinks: you're fucking his ass with a massive strap-on when the Winchesters suddenly burst in.

Dean's green eyes are wider than they've ever been, gawking down at the scene before him. Can't stop staring. "Oh, shit."

 _Oh, shit indeed_ , you think. Your own eyes are even wider, at the sight of him. It's fucking  _him_. He is even more perfect than you had imagined.  _Why is he here? What the fuck is he doing? You have to be dreaming..._

Meanwhile your pussy is creaming, every cell in your body burning and screaming. Of course, as if this moment could get any more embarrassing, your fiancé's little dick starts twitching spastically against his stomach, all of a sudden. Then it begins leaking weak dribbles of come all across his pale skin. He bites his lip in shame, but he can't fight what's happening. The fact that he just got off on the sight of this gorgeous stranger storming in, guns blazing, aiming at him...

"F- _fuck_ , Ava," Sam uncomfortably stutters, from where he's standing just behind his brother, "I... we're  _so_ sorry, uh..."

"Yeah, real sorry," the sex god echoes, stowing his pistol and clearing his throat. "We're, um—we're just gonna... go..."

"No!" you blurt out, instantly ashamed that the protest actually came out of your dumb fucking mouth. That was  _so_ not supposed to be spoken aloud. You try to backtrack, with your sex toy still lodged in your fiancé's tight little ass, speaking frantically fast. You end up sounding even stupider, no doubt. "I mean—I mean no, don't be sorry, guys, it's... it's fine, really, I..."

And then your fiancé has something to say. Tiny cock convulsing as he stares up at Dean's stunning face. The sight of such a total god has utterly taken his breath away. "Honey, is he... is he the one you were describing to me?"

 _Well, fuck_ , you think, silently panicking. You had indeed told your fiancé about the hot stud from your vision; you couldn't resist. Describing him in vivid detail, the most perfect human male, and telling your lover that you would be thinking about this dream guy every night for the rest of your life. That had gotten him off so damn hard, the idea of another man stealing the heart of his dear future wife. Finally playing into the one fetish of his that you hadn't been bold enough to explore, ever before: his shameless hardcore cuckold kink.

Upon hearing what your fiancé just said, Dean's beautiful brows arch up into his forehead. The idea of the two of you talking about him just doesn't make sense. " _What?_ Look, Miss Strap-On here and me—we've never met..."

"But she said..." your lover slurs hazily, clearly too sex-drunk to realize that he should just shut the hell up, "...she said she saw you in a dream. Sexiest man she'd ever seen."

The taller Winchester then unexpectedly chimes in. "Yeah, she probably did," he admits. He gets it; Dean must have been in your mind's eye, when you had envisioned Sam's death scene. "Ava, this—this is my brother Dean."

The sex god turns and glares at him furiously. " _Not_ the time for fucking introductions, Sammy..."

Sam just smirks and nods down at the crotch of his brother's blue jeans. "Think your dick begs to differ, Dean."

 _Holy motherfucking fuck_. You follow Sam's gaze and see just what he sees, and it's hotter than anything out of your dirtiest dreams—Dean's massive cock is rock hard, fucking bursting at the seams. Clearly, on some level at least, he gets off on this scene: the way the room is set on fire with raw bisexual energy, the way you and your fiancé both want to worship his sublime superiority.

It obviously turns him on, more than a little bit. He's not exactly proud of it. " _Ugh_ , goddamnit," he grunts in disgust, trying to hide his erection and exit the room, though Sam's blocking the way. Dean speaks carelessly, without even realizing the counterproductive effect of what he's gonna say. Till it's too late. "Blow me."

"Oh  _God_ , yes, please..." your fiancé whimpers desperately, his tiny cock hard as a rock again already.

Dean pauses for a second, shakes his handsome head and looks down at your lover's inferior dick. "Now this is just making me sick. Dude, you're fucking  _pathetic_."

At the divine sting of those words, the degradation he desires, your little bitchboy bucks his hips, a whorish moan leaving his lips. Which ends up driving your strap-on deeper into him, his filthy ass clenching around the bulbous plastic tip.

The sight and sensation of that spurs you right back into your role as dominatrix. On instinct, you start playing into this. "Damn straight he is. He's nothing but a worthless piece of  _shit_..."

Something about hearing those words from your mouth suddenly brings the dom out of Dean, too. As dominant as you may be, in scenes like these, this perfect god is  _way_ more dominant than you. And now he's ready to get off on showing it. A switch has flipped, and he's unable to resist. He couldn't turn and leave the room now, even if he wanted to. 

But he wants no such thing. He's here to fucking stay. Taking deliberate steps toward the bed, he snickers at the words that you just said, about your fiancé. Your husband-to-be is a worthless piece of shit; it's true. But Dean is here to prove that you are, too. "You think? And what the hell are you, you dirty little skank?"

Your mouth falls wide open, unhinging your jaw, more so an expression of awe rather than an attempt to respond. You could get off on just these first few words he's spoken. He's only just begun, and already his dominance is everything you want. It feels like your mouth just became a goddamn second cunt. Greedy and gaping, wet and juicy and pink, needy and silent, existing only to be used up and broken. In the bedroom, you've been in the role of the dom for so long. But now at last, the inner sub that was suppressed for all this time... has been awoken.

Dean approaches the side of the bed, and you instinctively tilt your head, awestruck by his godlike image, gazing up at him where he stands.

Your master had asked you a question. He hasn't forgotten. "Answer me, bitch," he demands, tilting your skull further back as he grabs a fistful of your hair in his strong sturdy hands. "Answer me while you're pegging your pathetic little pig. If you answer right, maybe then I'll let him watch as you suck on my big fucking dick."

By this point, you've straight up lost the ability to think. Just the sound of Dean's deep husky velvety voice, richly drenched in the flavor and scent of the whiskey he drinks, is a whole goddamn kink.

"This filthy little mouth ain't answering," he growls, dropping his free hand down, toward your chin. His thumb brushes across your bottom lip, teasing your dripping mouth before dipping right in. "Guess you're just desperate to suck something. Something to shut you up. Suck on this, slut."

You hum in pleasure while you suck on his big luscious thumb, your hips still thrusting into the lover beneath you, moving in a mad mindless rhythm. Your kinky fiancé has already come yet  _again_. You didn't even see it happen, because in this moment you don't give a shit about him.  _About anything other than Dean Winchester, this flawless god, your motherfucking king..._

He slips his thumb out of your mouth, only to slap your cheek, spit down your throat, and then stick all four of his other fingers in. While he feeds you his digits, Dean uses his other hand now to unfasten his jeans and unleash his huge dick. Without a doubt, you and your lover are both bound to die at the sight of it...

And that is exactly what you do. As it turns out, your fiancé dies way more loudly than you. In the very instant that Dean's cock is released—massive and thick with bulging veins along the length of it, the manliest yet most fucking exquisite shade of pink, exuding pure power and confidence, even more perfect than in all your wildest dreams—your little bitch begins squirming and squealing like the pig he is, his shriveled prick twitching in bliss. Words splutter off his panting lips. " _Ohhh hoooly shiiiit_..."

Dean punishes the pig's sorry excuse for a dick with a shot of his spit. Yet he knows his bodily fluids are much more of a blessing than a punishment. So he hikes up one of his legs over the bed, brings his heavy boot down right above your lover's dick, and fucking steps on it. Smearing in the thick wad of his spit. Crushing the tiny thing beneath the full weight of his body, big and strong and godly. "Shut the fuck up, worthless pig."

"Ohh I'm so,  _so_ sorry, sir..." your lover bleats, so eager to apologize that he just  _has_ to speak. Too dumb to even follow orders. "Your cock is just—so beautiful... so  _big_..."

"Damn right it is," Dean scoffs, shifting to strip out of his jeans and kick his boots off. His jacket and shirt had already been flung to the floor, a few moments before, so he is now standing in front of you in all his naked glory, letting you behold his mesmerizing beauty. Sealing your fate even  _more_ as his absolute whore. It feels like heaven to embrace being so utterly inferior.  _This fucking god exists to be worshiped and served and adored..._

"So much bigger than yours," he insults your inadequate lover, stroking his own perfect cock until it's even huger and harder than ever. "This big fat dick is gonna fuck her up so good. The way you never could."

By now your fiancé, lost deep in subspace, has turned into a pile of quivering slush. " _Fuuuck_ —thank you, sir, th-thank you so much..."

"Shut up and watch," Dean commands, grabbing your hair again in his dominant hands. He then settles onto his knees on the bed as he drags your head down toward his hot sweaty crotch. "Watch this dirty bitch worship my cock."

"Unghh  _yes_ , Master..." your lover groans, as he watches your jaw gape wide open to take all that meat down your throat. Your eyes roll right into the back of your head; it feels like you're literally dead, yet alive more than ever, so goddamn aroused by this mouthful of dick that you now begin fucking your sub's filthy ass even harder and faster.  _How can anything on earth be so delicious?_ You must have died and gone straight up to heaven, you think. That's the only conceivable answer.

"Shit..." Dean grunts, throwing his beautiful head back and biting his full lower lip. Then he smirks down at you as you choke on his cock, laughing at how pathetic you look— _even his laugh sounds like something straight out of a porno soundtrack, this sexy fucking bastard_. He tightens his grip on your head as the three of you rattle the bed. "That's it. Show your fuckpig how much you love sucking this big hard superior dick..."

You wouldn't have it any other way. Both you and your fiancé are officially his bitches, toys just made for him to play, his filthy little slaves. When at one point Dean suddenly pulls his cock out of your mouth, it's to rub it all over your face. The whole thick throbbing length. Slathering your skin with a hot mess of precome and spit, letting you slurp every last drop of sweat from his balls and his dick, drowning you in his heavenly juices, still smirking and laughing as you moan and sigh in pure bliss.

His gleaming green gaze shifts from you to your pig. "Bet you wish you could taste this," he wickedly teases, laughing at your lover while rubbing the head of his cock all across your wet lips. "Would you like that, bitch? Wanna give it a kiss?"

Your fiancé thrashes wildly beneath you at the thought of it. "Yes sir, please,  _yes..._!"

Dean snickers and spits on his forehead, then shifts his attention to you again. "Make him beg for it. Tell him how good this cock tastes, how much you love having it fuck your pretty little face. Just how big it is. How much better than his."

Pausing in your passionate oral worship, you lick the sweet film of precome off your lips. "Oh,  _so_ fucking delicious..." you truthfully gush. Never in all your life have you meant anything so much. With your strap-on still buried deep in your fiancé, you subjugate him even more with each word and each thrust. "He's so much bigger than you, bitch. I'm in love with his dick. The way it tastes, the way it goes deep down my throat and pounds my face until it breaks. He's fucking  _perfect_..."

" _Ohhh_..." your lover moans as waves of absolute submission fill him, thrill him to the bone. "Oh, thank you, Mistress..."

"You should be thanking  _him_ , you worthless sack of scum," you snap down at your sub, reminding him who is the dom.  _God, he's so fucking dumb._

"Yes, yes, I-I'm so sorry—thank you, Master, for feeding her..." the stupid pig whimpers. "May I please suck and lick your perfect fucking dick... and taste your juices...  _please_ , sir, just one kiss..."

"Pathetic pig," Dean says, shifting position on the bed, raising one of his feet and then stomping it down on your lover's dumb head. "No, you ain't worthy of this dick. You're gonna kiss and worship my feet while I fuck your mistress."

Though you can't hear him clearly when Dean's sweaty foot is so brutally smashing his face, you know just what your kinky fiancé is trying to say:  _Yes, yes, yesss..._

Still keeping one foot firmly planted on the slave's head, the sex god grabs your body, turns you around and throws you facedown on the mattress—slipping your strap-on out of your fiancé's ass in the process—and takes a firm grip of your hips, lifting them up till his dick hovers over your ass. Every move that he makes is so powerful, so fucking fast... Next thing you know, his massive cock is driving deep inside your wet cunt from behind, completely ripping you in half. Your slutty screams of pain and pleasure make him laugh.

"Yeah, that's it, slut. Take  _that_ ," he growls, keeping up at his merciless pace, reaching around your waist to yank the strap-on off your crotch and rub the plastic plaything all over your face. "You think this stupid toy makes you the boss? The way your kinky lover wants? Huh? Well, let's see just how bossy you feel if I shove this thing up your tight ass while I'm fucking your cunt."

Oh, you are definitely  _not_ the boss when that happens. You're just as deep in subspace as your freaky fiancé. And wouldn't have it any other way. With Dean Fucking Winchester as your dom, this is  _heaven_. Even more so knowing that your slave is down there worshiping the king's feet, sucking his toes and licking his soles, lavishing the arches with long loving kisses, servicing every inch and savoring the taste on his tongue, the strong salty sweat of a god, a  _real_ man. The man that your husband-to-be has never been.

Somehow he finds a way to speak, while swallowing Dean's feet. You can make out some of the words. "Thank you, Master, for fucking her—for fucking the woman I love... my tiny cock will never be enough... it is nothing compared to yours; I am nothing... You are everything, a fucking  _king_... You are so big and strong and beautiful and perfect, sir... Thank you for giving her such pleasure... and for letting me worship your feet—God, this is everything I need... all I could ever want..."

As if just hearing that kind of shit isn't enough of a turn-on, sending mad shockwaves of arousal through your cunt—in the meantime, Dean keeps pumping that strap-on violently deep in and out of your ass till it bleeds. The feeling of fullness in both holes fills you to the core of your soul, in ways your fiancé could never even dream;  _you can't wait till Dean comes deep inside your wet pussy and fills you up with his sweet cream, his supreme fucking seed..._

"Enough of that," Dean grunts eventually, tired of having your lover slobbering all over his feet. "You're not even worthy of sucking those toes, you worthless piece of trash. Doing such a shit job of it. Now why don't you get your pathetic face up here and kiss my ass."

That's an order that your slave has never been more eager to obey. "Yes, Master,  _yes_..."

"Just the cheeks first. Goddamn greedy pig," Dean scolds—apparently your fiancé had been a bit too bold and gone straight for the hole. He instantly apologizes, and then you can hear him salivating all over Dean's firm sculpted globes, servicing the strong muscles and smooth skin with kiss after kiss after kiss. The Adonis snickers down at him, all while continuing to fuck you to pieces. "Yeah, that's it, worship this sweet ass while I fuck your slutty mistress."

No experience in all your life has ever been so utterly delicious. You just wish that you could taste him, too, every last inch of his glorious godlike body... _if only you could be so lucky_... when he finally lets your lover lick his asshole, you have to summon all your self-control, fighting the urge to pull yourself off of his dick and go down till your face is right next to your fiancé's, both of you serving the king as his ass-licking slaves. But before you can get too carried away, with dreams of slurping up Dean's perfect ass... you suddenly feel his cock throbbing especially vigorously, deep inside your stretched pussy, his balls tightening up where they keep slapping forcefully into your cunt—fuck, he's going to  _come_ , and you can't think of anything else when you realize  _that_. 

"You want my come, you filthy slut?" Dean taunts, as if he has to ask. He slips the strap-on from your ass, throwing it down onto the floor; he wants his cock to be the only thing that's fucking you, when he makes you squirt like a whore. One of his hands gripping your hips, the other dips down toward your dripping pussy lips, fingers flicking against your clit, and you are  _done_ for. "Say it, bitch."

" _Yes_!" you desperately shout as your whole world comes crashing explosively down. "Yes, sir—I want your come, I fucking  _need_ it..."

The sex god lets out a cruel laugh. "You hear that, pig?" he mocks your lover, reaching around with one hand to grab the other man's head and force it deeper in his crack, till he can't fucking breathe anything but the scent of his king's sweat and shit. "Yeah, keep sniffing and licking my ass while she takes all the come from this dick. Fucking eat it..."

That godlike ass isn't the only thing your fiancé is gonna eat. No, he's gonna swallow a big fucking load of superior seed. As soon as Dean is done exploding white hot ropes of come deep in your soaking cunt, he whips his cock out, shoves your lover's head under your crotch and orders you to squirt all of that come, and all of your own pussy juices, straight into the bitch's gaping open mouth, watching as you shower him down until he fucking drowns. The king graciously lets you leave a few worshipful kisses all over his massive majestic dick, then shifts and blesses you with a passionate kiss on the lips. You know it's in the spirit of the classic cuckold kink. The two of you indulge in a long makeout session while sitting down together on your fiancé—Dean on his chest, you on his face—smothering him beneath your weight, till he practically suffocates. 

After several minutes, the Adonis has to take a piss; you beg for him to let you drink it. Thankfully, he does. Dean stands up on the bed to piss right in your mouth, some of the golden god juice splashing down your tits, over your stomach and your clit, until it drips right onto your fiancé's waiting lips, fucking drenching his pathetic little head. In more ways than one—in  _every_ goddamned way, at that—you've never been so wet. You and your lover have become nothing but dumpsters for Dean's godly fluids, his divine come and delicious piss, every perfect drop cascading down your body toward your slave's degraded face, so that the two of you together in this way can serve him as his toilet.  _How much more fucking intense could this whole cuckold kink even get...?_

When Dean Fucking Winchester finally leaves, you're too blissed out to even realize that Sammy had been in the room jerking off to this scene the whole time, watching with worlds of incestuous love in his wide hazel eyes, which makes everything that much more freakishly kinky. It's not as if that matters, really. Nothing does, it seems; your subspace is so raw, so pure and deep, that life feels like a waking dream... when the dom leaves, his subs sprawled in a soaked and senseless heap, you and your fiancé are certainly set to enjoy the best night's sleep.

For a few minutes, at least. Your blissful dreaming ends up interrupted by a demon. Soon after leaving, Sam gets yet another bad feeling, and he and Dean turn back to make sure that you are okay... but it's too late, by then.

Dean feels like utter shit, after what happened. Getting a little nookie is supposed to always be a good thing... but it's  _not_ , when this is how it ends. Your fiancé is dead, steeped in his own blood in this sinful bed, and you're lost in the wind. The victim of some demon. That makes Dean hate himself, for what a dick he'd been. On some level, he knows that it's exactly what you both wanted... but still, he'll always find a new excuse to hate himself—that's just the way he's fucked up in the head. He'll always be a sucker for self-hatred.

So thank God freaks like you and your lover exist, to balance out the universe, a little bit: suckers for submissive service to Dean Winchester, worshiping him for being so damn perfect. Literally loving him to death.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed this!!! :)
> 
> Always grateful for kudos and comments <3


End file.
